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Odd Fellows’ Story, 


BT 



J. H. KINKEAD, 

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Past D. G. M. of Ohio. 


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Cincinnati: 

J. H. KINKEAD <fe CO., 
1876. 



Entered according to an act of Congress, in the year 1876, bj 
J. H. KINKEAD, 

io the office of- the Librarian of Congress, at Wanhingtoii* 




TO MY FRIEND AND BROTHER, 

JOHN GOULD, 

OF MAGNOLIA LODGE NO. 83, 
WHOSE LONG AND FAITHFUL SERVICE 
iN THE CAUSE OF HUMANITY’ 
JUSTLY ENTITLES HIM 
TO THE 

HIGHEST RANK AS A PHILANTHROPIST, 
THIS LITTLE VOLUME 
is MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED 
BY. THE 


AUTHOR. 












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3Sro MOISTEY. 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ 8T0BT, 
- -o - 


CHAPTER I. 

A February thaw was upon the City, 
and the coal smoke, beaten down by the 
moist foggy atmosphere, made all out doors 
seem freshly painted — daubed with a coat- 
ing of the nasty black. Tall smoke stacks 
sent down instead of up, their contents of 
filthy smoke. A mist hung upon the river, 
and the shrill screaming of harbor tugs in- 
dicated their fear of encountering their 
kind as they fretted and plowed the waters. 
Darkness comes early on such an evening, 
especially in a city with such a mantle of 
sable hanging over it. The street lamps 
glowed feebly upon the scene, yet without 
their sickly ray Egyptian darkness would 
hare reigned supreme. 

It was an unpleasant evening for males 
to be abroad, even when amply protected 
by sound shoe leather and rubber overs ; 
but still more unpleasant for a delicate 
female with no over-shoes at all. Gliding 
along Second Street, near Main, and rap- 
idly moving east, might have been seen 
the figure of a female rather thinly and 
poorly clad- Yet even her coarse clothing 
could not hide a certain grace of manner 
as she lightly pursued her way. She looked 
neither to the right or left , but held her way 
with a determination that left no doubt in 
the mind of the beholder that she was 
homeward bound. At the crossing of 
Broadway and Second, she passed two 
policemen who leaned languidly one on 
either side of a lamp post. One of the 
guardians of the night eyed her suspiciously. 
The other scarcely seemed aware of her 
existence. One of these policemen (he 
whose curiosity had been aroused) was a 
Wrge broad-shouldered man, with a small 
grey eye and grizzly beard j he might have 


been mistaken for a brigadier General of 
the regular army. Gruff in manner, quick 
to think, and quick to act, and brave as a 
lion. Patrolman Jeff Wilson was esteemed 
one of the best roundsmen in the city. 
Yet like many policemen called to keep 
order in a great city, and seeing night 
after night the wickedness aad depravity of 
fallen mankind, he had come to look upon 
almost all with with suspicion. 

^‘You never know who to trust till you try 
‘em,” he used to say to his mate, as some 
new depredation was committed on their 
beat by a person holding a hitherto sup- 
posed good character. 

The partner of the first named policeman 
was known as George Somers. He was a 
young man of not more than twenty-three 
years, and had been on the force since 
his majority. He had a large clear eye 
that looked you frankly in the face. His 
countenance was handsome and manly; a 
fair type of a true American face. His 
figure was strong and well built, such in- 
deed as would have attracted the attention 
of curious observers of male beauty ; in 
height, he was five feet eleven; with broad, 
expansive chest, and a strong arm whose 
great power was never called into play ex- 
cept in self-defense, when opposed by some 
refractory rough whose misdoings had 
brought him under the ban of the law. In 
manners, George Somers was gentle, almost 
effeminate ; at least so he would have 
appeared to the casual observer ; but those 
who knew him better were aware that 
beneath his urbane exterior was a firmness 
that almost amounted to stubborness. His 
mate often accused him of being woman- 
hearted — but of cowardice, never. He 
would have faced a revolver in the hands 
of a desperado, if in the discharge of his 


NO MONEY} 


duty } but if his conscience told him he 
was doing a wrong, he would have been 
an arrant coward. The Chief knew his 
force — he knew his men — and in selecting 
officers for one of the hardest wards in the 
city, he had fallen upon the two we have 
named. He doubtless saw in Somers the 
restraining power that would stay the hasty 
hand of Jeff Wilson. Many a poor refrac- 
tory wretch’s head was saved from the mace 
of Wilson by the interposition of Somers. 

George Somers was the only child of a 
widowed mother. His father, who was a 
machinist, had died when George was a 
lad of fifteen. The boy was then learning 
his trade with his father. 

A sad bereavement to the mother and 
son was the death of Mr Somers. He was 
an affectionate father, a kind, loving hus- 
band. By dint of rigid economy, he had suc- 
ceeded in buying a home, and laying up a 
few hundred dollars in bank. This sum, 
with the earnings of the boy, enabled his 
family to live in comparative comfort. 
George almost idolized his mother, and 
she in turn, as most mothers are apt to do, 
looked upon her offspring as a paragon of 
human perfection. At eighteen, George 
laid aside his trade and went to school for 
three years ; indeed he had a great thirst 
for knowledge. Books were the green field s 
in which he loved to roam. His intellect 
required fuel, and he found it in books. 
His mother’s keen perception noted this 
favorable disposition. She allowed him to 
follow his own inclinations. She even sat 
at work hour after hour longing to converse 
with George and yet hesitating to disturb 
him. Coming back suddenly from the 
realms of dreamland he would often throw 
down the book and apologize for having 
forgotten her so long Theirs was a happy 
home. 

At twenty-one George determined to 
seek some occupation — some means to earn 
a livelihood. A chance occurred in this 
wise. On his twenty-first birthday it hap- 
pened he attended the polls of of the ward, 
for the purpose of casting his first vote for 
city officers. The situation was so new 
to him that he stood for some time watch- 


ing the stream of men pushing their way 
up to the judge’s stand. While he was 
thus engaged, an elderly, well-dressed man 
approached and bidding him good morning 
asked ; 

“Have you voted yet, my young friend 
George acknowlcagod that he had not. 
“I am one of the candidates for Mayor, 
and should feel obliged if you would favor 
me with your vote. ” 

George thought a moment and, then 
replied “ that he had no preference, that 
being his maiden vote, and knowing neither 
of the candidates, and upon refiection, he 
would' cast his suffrage as he desired*** 
“May I ask your name ? ’’ 

“Certainly ; it is George Somers* ** 

“A son of Henry Somers ? ’* 

“Yes, Sir. ” 

“Indeed I I knew your father well. ** 
The elderly man made a memorandum. 
George crossed the street — fell into line 
with the able-bodied American citizens, 
and reached out his ticket as hesitatingly 
as a bashful girl gives her hand to her over. 

The election was over, and the victorious 
party cried themselves hoarse ; and the 
small politicians went back into their hotels, 
not to come out again until the heat of 
another campaign’ should thaw them into 
activity. George forgot all about the elec- 
tion until one day, in looking over the 
police appointments, he was almost thun- 
derstruck to find his own name among the 
successful ones. His first impression was 
that there was some mistake, and was 
intended for some one else, but the same 
evening a note was received from the Chief 
of police, officially notifying him of his 
appointment and requiring him to appear 
on the following day and be sworn in. ^ 
George scarcely knew whether to accept 
or decline. Finally like thousands of 
Americans who never expect to make any 
profession a life work, bitt only follow the 
bent of fortune until something better turns 
up, he accepted. And this is how he 
became a policeman. He had been two 
years in .this employment, and the chief 
regarded him as one of the very best men 
on the force* 


AN ODD FELLOWS' STORY. 


f 


Bat let us turn back to the two men as 
they stand at the corner of Broadway and 
Second Streets. 

“Who was that hussy that just went by, 
gliding like a feather,” asked Wilson, after 
the figure of the female had disappeared in 
the darkness. 

“She is not a hussy by any means, Jeff; 
in fact, she’s as nice and decent a girl as 
lives in this ward. She is poor, it is true, 
and ihit is probably why she is out 
so late at night. Working people are ofteu 
compelled to be abroad while the rich arc 
sitting around their fires.” 

“1 supp 'se she is another one of your 
pets,” growled Wilson. 

“No, she is no pet of mine ; but I sym- 
pathize with the bird lot ; she and her 
raotner are compelled to suffer. I knew 
her father when [ was serving my appren 
ticeship in the shops where he worked. I 
'saw him after he was killed — mangled by 
being caught in the gearing. Knowing 
them to be honest, honorable and in every 
way v.'orthy, why should I not sympathize 
with them?” 

Wilson inserted the index finger of his 
right hand under his chapeau with the evi- 
dent intention of scraping up an answer. 

“Preaching, preaching! Now I don't 
believe there is half as much morality in 
this world as some folks do. People are 
wonderfully given to stealing ; and as for 
lying, Pve known church folks that would 
Ke like a rail-road poster and then go to 
church and look as sanctimonious as owls.” 

“Still, Wilson, we ought not to condemn 
all because some do wrong. You know we 
have bad men on our force — men who dis- 
grace it, they would disgrace a chain gang 
— but would you not hotly resent the 
charge that all were villains ?” 

Wilson saw himself being gradually 
wound up like a rope over a reel ; but like 
a great many people when they find they 
are being oored in an argument, he 
dodged and changed the conversation. He 
secretly admired George Somers, and 
would have waded through fire and flood, 
to have saved him from harm, but then he 
was a constitutional growler. He growled 


because the Mayor did not make him a 
captain or lieutenant instead of a patrolman ; 
he growled if his wages was not paid to a 
miuRte; he growled at the weather — it 
was too hot or too cold, too dry or too wet. 
He growled at persons present and persons 
absent; ranch more emphatically at the 
latter than the former. Somers didn’t 
much mind him, as he was rather genile- 
raanly in his growling with him. 

“You have not told me the name of 
these poor folks,’’ said Wilson a^ter a pa ise. 

“Gibbons is the name they are known 
by.” 

“Gibbons ; well it seems to me I knew 
the man once. Was he a rather tall 
man. with light and large eyes ? ” 

“Yes, that is ray recollection of him.” 

“Did he walk a little lame ? " 

“Yes.” 

“Then I knew the man, though I was 
not acquainted with him. I always took 
ikp the idea that he was a little stuck up 
for a man that nad no money.” 

“There yon are mistaken, Mr. Wilson. 
Gibbons was not proud beyond that which 
every honest man ought to be to entitle him 
to self-respect. He was not much of a 
talker. A machinist has no time to talk 
when at work, in fact, the noise of flying 
wheels makes it almost impossible to do so 
in the shops. Perhaps this may have 
accounted in a measure for his quietness. 
But for all that, he was a man of sterling 
qualities — a splendid mechanic, and always 
spoke kindly to us apprentices.” 

“I don’t say he was stuck up” returned 
Wilson doggedly, fearing doubtless that he 
was being gradually drawn into another 
argument where he would in all probability 
get worsted, “but it always looked that way. 
As long as he minded his own business, I 
minded mine; so we had little — in fact 
nothing — to do with each other. ” 

“I am glad you don’t entertain any bad 
feelings toward Mr. Gibbons, for if ever 
there lived an honest, upright man, he 
was one. But for the unfortunate accident 
by which he lost his life, he would have 
been foreman for the Company to day. 

“Where does his family live?” 


8 


NO M‘JNEY: 


“Up in Annear’s block. Its a poor old 
rickety tumble down house, not fit for a 
cow-stable. There are several other fam- 
lies living there, and they say old An near 
comes for his rent as regular as a quack 
doctor for his hard-earned fee or — ” 

^‘A policeman for his shiners, chuckled 
Wilson. 

“ If he doesn’t get his money he casts 
them overboard, though it seems to me 
they would be about as well protected out 
of doors as in such an old rookery as that. 
Why, Wilson, a man ought to be prosecuted 
for eollecting rent for such a place.” 

“It’s all right. If people go and^burrow 
in such a den, they must expect to pay.” 

“Of course. But landlords might be a 
little considerate, and by the expenditure 
of a few hundred dollars, tenants might 
be made comfortable. Then it wouldn’t 
look like taking something for nothing. ’ 

There is no telling how long this co^ver- 
satiou might have lasted, but for a yell 
down toward Front street. Both men 
picked up their ears. Again the cry of 
“police,” “police” was heard. 

“Trouble at the Ragged Edge Saloon,” 
said Wilson. “Let us hurry down there; ’’ 
and both men ran down to the Saloon above 
named. 

CHAPTER n. 

The female whom we noticed passing 
along Second Street, hastened on until she 
came in front of a shabby, two-story frame 
tenement house. At the side of the house 
an old gate stood, half ajar. The upper 
hinge was broken, and the gate unable to 
keep its equilibrium, leaned outward. The 
female turned in at the gate, and passed 
through a paved court, where two garbage 
barrels s tood beside each other like twin 
brothers, and emitted perfumes that would 
have been a mortal ofience to delicate ol- 
factories. Passing around to the rear of 
the house the female sprang up an old 
stairway whose only bond of union with 
the house consisted of two wooden bars 
somehow set in the walls. The stairs 
creaked and trembled, even under the 


fairy-like feet that sprung up its iU wooden 

steps. 

Entering a room near the top of the 
stair-case, she threw aside her slight wrap- 
pings, and Stella Gibbons stood in her 
mother’s presence. A coal-oil lamp upon 
the mantle shed a bright though not a 
brilliant lisfht over the room. Stella, as 
she stood there, looked almost a queen,— 
with a face far too lovely for her station in 
life in a city, eyes that were large and mild, 
and a form that was incomparable. 

Many a maiden in the higher walks of 
life would have given thousanus to have 
exchanged beauty with this humble girU 

As she spoke, her voice was low 
and soft, and thrilled the hearer as the 
tones of a harp. When she threw aside 
her hood her hair became unfastened, and 
fell down her back in blond ringlets, reach- 
ing to her waist. Quickly catching up and 
replacing the refractory tresses, she asked 
her mother if Willie had retired. 

“Yes, dear, he complained of being wearj 
so I told him he had better retire.” 

Stella went to the bed where the Ittla 
sleeper lay, and, looking at him a moment, 
stooped down and kissed him. The only e^ 
feet ot this expression of sisterly affection on 
the young sleeper, was to cause him to make 
a wry face and turn upon his side. Stella 
smiled, and turned to her mother. 

“I think kisses must be sour to sleepeis 
from the manner in which Willie makes 
faces.” 

“Come, child, and eat your supper, for I 
know you must be weary after so long a 
walk, and the streets are in wretched con- 
dition. I will draw the table near the stova. 
Remove your shoes, and dry your feet.” 

“Oh, dear mother, my feet are perfectly 
dry, thanks to my new shoes. ” 

“I am glad you like your shoes, for I 
feared you would find them too heavy,** 
and Mrs. Gibbons stole a glance at her 
daughter. 

“They are a little clumsy, but then they 
are so warm and dry. I would rather wear 
heavy shoes and be laughed at, than wear 
thin ones and pay the doctor.” 


ODD PBLLOWfir STORY, 


‘‘Who has been laughing at you, daugter, 
for consulting your own comforts ?” 

Stella was silent, but her cheeks crim- 
soned just a little. 

Mrs. Gibbons saw her daughter’s confu- 
sion, and said no more, although her 
mother’s heart yearned to know and to 
sympathize with Stella. “She is begining 
to feel the kneen edge of the world’s biting 
sarcasm,” thought Mrs. Gibbons. “A few 
fears ago and all Eighth Street might have 
laughed at her and she would not have 
2 ured ; but now she had grown to early 
womanhood, and she blushes if all do not 
praise. Poor as we are, we are not alone 
in these unpleasant sensations of wounded 
ranity. The rich feel them greater because 
dieir perch is higher and their fall must be 
greater. The good Lord didn’t give us all 
feelings and understandings alike. He 
iidn’t make our minds any more alike than 
>ur countenances or our bodies. Some are 
juick, hot blooded people ; others cold, 
jelfish and calculating. People who can 
aide their real feelings, get along best in 
,he world. Stella is too transparent — a 
ihild conld read her feelings in her face. 
5he has never received the gloss of polished 
ioeiety that almost stops the pulsation of 
.he heart at the word of command, and 
brces a calm exterior, while a raging fire 
.8 within. This may not be acting nature, 
)ut it is often policy. The person who 
assume complaisance on all occasions 
s an actor of no mean merit.” 

Thus did Mrs. Gibbons’s thoughts flow 
as her daughter sat quietly eating her sup- 
jer. We can not, like Charles Read, have 
.he tables of our character surroui^ded by 
iveried servants, ready to supply them with 
.he practical sense that plans a meal and 
hen cooks and serves it, but we shall let a 
portion of them be their own groomsmen 
iod ladies’ maids, until they can rise a 
ligher level by their own exertions. We 
kre not here to plan for our characters, 
but merely to chap erone our kind readers 
among them. We shall remain faithful as 
a guide and chronicler of passing events, 
hoping the reader will trust himself implic- 
,ity and hopefully to our care. 


While Stella Gibbons is quietly eating 
thefrugal allowance before her, let us look 
around the room. The house was evidently 
built before the town had put on a metropol- 
itan, air sand ere people had learned to econo- 
mize space. The room is a large one, and 
the ceiling low. There is no. carpet on the 
floor, but its damp appearance and clean- 
liness bore evidence of recent scrubbing. 
A window on one side stood opposite a 
door on the other. — There had once been 
a fireplace, but it had been walled over. 
A cooking-stove stood a few feet from where 
the fireplace had once yawned — the pipe 
entered a circular flue opening in the wall 
above. The walls were papered, but time 
and coal smoke had played sad havoc with 
the fantastic figure. Two beds occupied 
different corners of the room, while an old 
forsioned bureau stood between. In a cor- 
ner near the stove a tin fronted safe played 
the part of pantry to this humble family. 
The end of an old trunk peered from be- 
neath one of the beds, as if playing hide 
and seek. A half dozen Windsor chairs, ft 
table, and a few other articles of common 
utility, completed the contents in chatties 
of this humble abode. In addition to this 
room, Mrs. Gibbons had the use of a small 
closet, in which were hung a few articles 
of wearing apparel and was the abiding 
place of another trunk. 

Mrs. Gibbons and her daughter earned 
a living by making dresses for a number 
of ladies on Ninth street. She was skilful 
with the needle and gave them better fits 
than they could get elsewhere — a sure 
sign of patronage. These ladies formed a 
set — that is, they attended the same church 
— attended the same balls, and in fact were 
supposed to be company for each other, 
but for nobody else. Their exclusiveness 
was carried to the point of wringing from 
Mrs. Gibbons the promise that she would 
make ne dresses, garments or other wear- 
ing apperal for any outsiders. They paid 
well enough, but occasionally a dress was 
refused and the poor woman had to sacri- 
fice it. She knew that this compact would 
last no longer than the appearance of a 
successful rival. She studied hard to keep 


10 NO MONET 


abreast of fluttering, fluctuating fashion. 
Now it was this new, fangled fusion, now 
that, was rolled in on the whirligig of time. 
Mrs. Gibbons’s shrewdnesss caused her to 
form an alliance with a New York mantau- 
maker who forwarded her the patterns of 
all new styles as soon as they came from 
Paris. Thus she kept ahead, knowing full 
well that fashion, like civilization, travels 
westward. Her customers were not unfre- 
quently astonished when they broached the 
subject of a new style to find her thoroughly 
Dosted. 

They felt flattered, and this was the 
secret of her success . Her dainty high-bred 
customers would never have design to seek 
her miserable quarters — not they. When 
a new dr^ ss was to be made they dispatched 
a servant, and Mrs. Gibbons went post- 
haste to the gieat hoese, where she took 
the measnre, secured the goods in the 
rough, bore them away and brought them 
back a thing fit for the winding sheet of 
an angel. 

What an humble origin some things 
have I We pass the jeweler’s window, and 
are dazzled at the display of articles of 
silver and gold. Go down in the cellar 
and see the smoke-begrimed, and dirty- 
fisted artisan who fusions them. Look at 
the snowney paper^before you, and think 
that it may have been niade from the cast- 
off linen of a beggar wreaking with disease. 
It is the skilful hand that does it all — 
time and labor, brain and muscle,^ that 
works this wonderful transformation. 

Stella had just been on an errand to 
one of the great houses up-town to bear to 
its fair owner a new dress. 

Mrs. Gibbons forebore questioning her 
daughter ere she had finished her supper, 
knowing full well that if any exiraordinary 
thing had occuaed Stella would have told 
her at once. — The girl washed the dishes, 
put them away in the safe, and then placed 
the lamp on the table ready for work. 

“You have not told me how Miss Lucy 
Moorhead liked her new dress,’’ said Mrs. 
Gibbons, turning to Stella w?th an inquisi- 
tive glance. 

“Oh I mother you know Miss Lucy is 


not hard to please like those Englishet 
and Pattons. If there ever was an angel 
I think Miss Lucy is. one. — She is not sar- 
castic and does not provoke me like the 
Jones girls. Sometimes I just feel as if 
I would like to throw my arms around her 
sweet face as Ido brother Willie’s.’’ 

“And get yourself ordered away, prob- 
ably, for such a presumption.” 

“I know my place, mother. I know, 
too, there is a wide gulf separating us from 
those for whom we labor. I shall be dis- 
creet, never fear for that. But mother, are 
these rich people any better then we are 
— that is, any of them but Miss Lucy ? 
“Why do you except Miss Lucy ? ’’ 
“Because I know she is better than I 
can ever hope to be and Siella l..»oked 
her mother earnestly in the face as if try- 
ing to read her thoughts, but there was 
no flush, no confracting of the muscles, no 
tell tale in the eyes — nothing that would 
indicate what was passing within that 
brain. 

“No, not better than we, in the sense 
that applies to all mankind ; not physically 
better; perhaps not morally better; but 
wealth has given them advantages for cul- 
tivating their intellects, it has given them 
time to devote to the higher accomplish- 
ments of social life — in a word, money 
gains them only in the estimation of those 
who look no father for real merit.” 

Stella sighed as if a load had been re- 
moved from her heart. 

“Than they are really no better than we.’* 
“Certainly not.” 

“How do people get rich ? ** 

“ What a question! But it is naturaL 
People get rich by making money and sav- 
ing it — that is, spending less than they 
make. Some people make their money by 
their own exertions ; others are born rich. 
Many of the wealthy young people of to- 
day, if they could see their grandfathers 
and grandmothers of sixty years ago, 
would see them tending a little shop some- 
where, dealing out figs and cakes and 
cigars, stinting themselves that they might 
make each dollar beget another ; and thus 
they toiled and saved until they had amassed 


AN ODD FELLOWS* STORY. 


11 


a fortune} and just when they should 
have begun to enjoy it, they died and left 
it to a thankless posterity/ 

Thankless posterity usually manages 
to make it fly,” cried Stella, laughing. 

‘‘Yes, yes, my child; one generation 
saves money and the next one spends it.” 

“ I think I should preler to be the lucky 
one, charged with spending the money.’’ 

“ Perhaps it is better as it is — the rich 
are i.ot all happy. Envy and hate hides 
behind stone and brick as well as wooden 
walls, and pain follows man whithersoever 
he sets his foot.” 

“ I know that must be true, for Miss 
Lucy said she had such a headache yester- 
day all day, and she was at a party the 
night before.” 

” Yes, these parties are good headache 
generators. But what package is that you 
have?” 

“ Oh, I forgot; it is a book Miss Lucy 
loaned me. She said it was very amusing.” 

“ Then, as we haven’t much to do, you 
may read while I work — not too loud, as 
we should disturb Willie.” 

Thus admonished Stella undid the wrap- 
pings of the book, admired the gilt binding, 
and began to read in a low but distinct 
tone. The title of the book was, “ Freaks 
on the Fells, or Three Months Rustication, 
by R. M. Ballentyne.” The book amused 
both, while it imparted some knowledge of 
the sports in the Highlands of Scotland. 
The tone of the book did much to impress 
upon Stella ' the truth of what her 
mother had just said, that Joy and happi- 
ness do not always find an abiding place 
under the roof of the wealthy. 

Thus did the hours pass on until a bell 
in a neighboring steeple slowly and sol- 
emnly tolled the hour of ten o’clock. An- 
other further off took up the refrain and 
carried it on^-and so it went from tower to 
tower, until the slowest, laziest clock in 
town had got in its “ ten strike.” 

“ Stella closed the book, and mother and 
daughter were about to retire, when there 
came a great noise from the back yard as 
if some one was falling down the rear stair- 
fWay, followed by piercing screams from a 


female voice. Both the women held their 
breaths, the younger turning pale and 
trembling violently. Then there came the 
clatter of swiftly running feet, as people 
passing on the street entered the court and 
hurried around the house to learn the cause. 


CHAPTER III. , 

After a few moments spent, half hesitat- 
ing what course to pursue, Mrs. Gibbons 
ventured forth to the top of the stairway 
to ascertain, if possible, the cause of such 
an unusual noise. 

Around the foot of the stair was gathered 
a motley group of citizens, male and fe- 
male. The crowd seemed to be attracted 
to some one who lay upon the ground. 
Presently the throng drew back a little, 
and two men bore an apparently lifeless 
form up the stairway. The rabble would 
doubtless have followed, had they not been 
kept back by the police. As the little 
procession passed through the hall Mrs. 
Gibbons saw that it was a poor wretch by 
the name of Whalen, who had fallen down 
in a drunken fit, and was to all appear- 
ances, in a dying condition. 

The ward physician had been sent for, 
and having arrived, was giving such di- 
rections as he deemed most likely to bring 
Whalen to consciousness. Following close 
behind, and with the true devotion of wo- 
man to fallen man, was Mrs. Whalen, giv- 
ing vent to her sorrows in the loudest la- 
mentations. 

Mrs. Gibbons followed, hoping to be of 
some service in consoling her neighbor 
in the hour of sorrow. Alas I what poor 
comforters are we all in the presence of the 
grim monster Death when he seizes a hu- 
man victim I 

Whalen had led a long .e of debauch- 
ery. Often and often had he come home 
in the mood to mistreat her who was at 
this moment the sincerestof mourners over 
his sad fate. With all the ill usage she 
had received, and with all the scars that, 
during a long series of years, a brute had 
inflicted upon her, she would at that mo- 
ment have laid down her own life that his. 


KO MONEY; 


tl 

worthless as it was, might be spared. Such 
is the love of woman. 

Mrs. Gibbous sought to still the tempest 
of sorrow, but as well might she have 
tried to calm the whirling tornado. The 
ward physician plied his art, but there’s a 
period in all our lives when death laughs 
at medicine. That moment in Whalen’s 
life had c^me. He died. 

In a stone-front mansion — all Cincinnati 
mansions have stone fronts — on Eighth 
Street lived Elijah Moorhead. The stone 
steps that carried one up by degrees to his 
street door were as clean as soap and wa- 
ter and Irish energy could make them. 
The projecting stone cornice-work at the 
eaves gave to the building a frowning look 
— frowning to the poor who passed under 
its shadows. 

The house was a grand pile of brick and 
stone. Grand as it appeared from the 
street, when one had passed the well- 
grained portal, he stood in awe at the 
grandeur, almost regal splendor, of the 
interior. When we enter these great pal- 
aces of our wealthy citizens, we experience 
a sensation not unlike that we feel when 
clambering out upon the roof of the incline 
railway building on Price’s Hill. The 
sensation is a half giddy one, warning us 
that we ought to be away. But elegant 
houses exist for all that, and if we would 
pursue our story we must enter them, at 
least whenever duty calls, whether by day 
or by night. 

As you entered the gran# parlor you 
seemed to tread on velvet. Furniture of 
costly woods and of the latest patterns 
stood around the room like so many ser- 
vants, each ready and willing to minister 
to the comfort of its wealthy owner. The 
finest lace curtains depended from gilt 
fastenings above, and swooped down almost 
to the floor, where their gossamer folds 
were caught up on burnished hooks, fas- 
tened on the casings of the windows. In 
the center of the room and depending from 
the high ceiling, was a gorgeous chande- 
lier with pendants of cut glass. The walls 
were thickly hung with paintings, some of 
which bore signs of artistic merit, others 


being mere danbf, proving plainly that 
their selection had been made more at 
random than as the result of a cultivated 
taste. 

We shall not go from room to room and 
take an inventory of the furniture — Jen- 
kins forbid — but merely remark that the 
remainder of the house was equally well 
furnished. 

This, then, was the residence of Elijah 
Moorhead, who, according to a mercantile 
agency, was “a merchant of correct busi- 
ness habits, good character and standing 
and good for all contracts.” 

Elijah Moorhead was a toiler among the 
bales and boxes. Rising from behind 
an obscure country counter, he had, as hia 
means accumulated, drifted to a city as 
the center of trade, and gradually risen to 
opulence. Ignorant of everything in the 
world save business, in this he was as 
shrewd as a fox. The daily press afforded 
sufficient food for his practical mind, except 
on Sundays, when he read a few pages in 
the Bible, or Fox’s book of Martyrs, and 
while perusing the latter he would seem to 
undergo all pains felt by the victims of 
inquisitorial zeal. 

We call him Elijah, but it would have 
deeply offended him to be thus familiarly 
addressed by any man worth less than a 
hundred thousand dollars. We do so on 
the principle and with the same utter dis- 
regard of consequences that we speak of 
King George III. as an old. tyrant. Elijah 
was a very pious man — on Sundays. He 
drove to church fin his elegant carriage, 
and then sent John, the coachman, away 
with the horses. It never occurred to 
Elijah that possibly John’s soul might 
need saving as well as his own. He was 
a warm and zealous friend of the heathen 
of Asia and Africa, as well as of semi-bar- 
barous Turkey. He viewed all his heathen 
through a field glass, but saw none with 
the naked eye. His daughter would some- 
times ask him if it were not better to feed 
a hungry fly at home than to send food to 
a gnat abroad. He did not think so. His 
schemes were numerous and very compre- 
hensive, and if a tithe of them had been 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


U 


euricd oat, the hesthen sons of ^‘Afric’s 
burning sands” would soon have been 
Uving in 6tone front houses, with fountains 
of ice-water to cool their parched tongues. 

He never bestowed a penny on a home 
beggar j he turned them away with a snarl. 
If they wanted money, let them go and 
earn it as he did. 

Domestic beggars were a species of ver- 
min that, in his opinion, ought not to be 
tolerated by the authorities. So intensely 
did he despise this riff-raflF of society, that 
he gave strict orders to his clerks that none 
of them should be permitted to pollute the 
sanctity of his private office. Reader, have 
you ever known an Elijah Moorhead? 
You have ; so have we. In business mat- 
ters Elijah was honor itself. People said 
he was shrewd at a bargain, and we sup- 
pose he was ; witness his fortune. The 
click of his watch was but a faint echo of 
the hard cash that dropped into his coffers. 
Old Nibs was the book-keeper, and Old 
Nibs was a machine — a propeller. Elijah 
was the pilot that guided Nibs. If Eli- 
jah frowned, Nibs was as solemn as an 
owl. Elijah loved tools if their handles 
were always conveniently near. Nibs was 
a tool, ergo, he loved Nibs as he loved his 
own soul. Elijah Moorhead was a consti- 
tutional scold — he called it earnestness. 
He k&ew whom to scold. He never scolded 
a valuable man whose services he could 
not afford to dispense with. Oh no. He 
usually selected some poor imp who could 
not get a situation in any other house. 
But 6till, with all his little eccentricities, 
Elijah was not a hard task master. He 
paid men fairly and promptly for their 
sdl^ioes, and they in return usually over- 
looked his scoldings, or attributed them 
more to the result of a naturally irritable 
nkture, than to a wish to offend. Elijah, 
having now acquired a great business rep- 
utation, turned his longing eyes to the 
political horizon. Like a vessel becalmed 
in a low latitude, he was waiting and 
watching for a breeze that would waft him 
into political prominence. 

He attended ward meetings with a zeal 
worthy of a professional bummer, and 


courtc^ and toadied to those who had in- 
fluence as politicians. In a word, he 
played the demagogue most persistently. 

Elijah Moorhead's family consisted of a 
wife and daughter — the former a plain 
woman of good sense and with sufficient 
penetration to see and feel that the social 
circle in which they were now moving, 
was in advance of her early educational 
advantages. Mrs. Moorhead, therefore, 
kept discreetly in the back-ground. 

Lucy Moorhead was a young lady 
rare beauty and fine accomplishments. 

Beautiful by nature, every art had been 
called to aid in magnifying that loveliness. 
As Stella Gibbons had intimated, Lucy 
had a good kind heart, which, added to her 
good senses, restrained her from saying 
and doing many things that numerous 
giddy-headed young ladies of her set said 
and did. While she loved her father with 
the devotion of a child, she by no means 
coincided with his notions on charity. 
With her the real objects of charity were 
visible on every hand. She had no diffi- 
culty in finding them, for she used only the 
naked eye and followed the dictates of a 
true woman’s heart. Lucy occasionally 
resorted to a little stratagem to rid herself 
of the prattling whining nobodies that buz^ 
zed and simpered around her. This ruse 
was to enter upon a moral lecture of char- 
ity, or some kindred topic. By this means 
she always accomplished the desired re- 
sult, and the empty-headed gentlemen fled 
like poltroons at the first discharge in a 
battle. If there is anything that your 
mewing babbler cannot withstand it is a 
moral lecture. Of small talk he is as full 
as a maggot is of meat, but put him on a 
common-sense subject and he flounders, 
plunges, splashes, and finally sinks. Thus 
had Lucy’s eccentric conversation brought 
her into ill repute with some who were kind 
enough to bestow upon her the epithet of 
‘‘the moral lecturer.” We shall see pres- 
ently how much she deserved the title. 

Her father, in pursuance of a plan he had 
laid to obtain the mayorality of the city, 
had resolved to hold a reception of the 
leading politicians and men of inflnence. 


14 


NO MONEY j 


He had therefore printed a large number of 
invitations, which he brought home to be 
addressed to the various persons whose 
presence he desired. He called Lucy into 
the Library one afternoon and invited her 
to become his amanunsis for an ‘hour. 
The young lady seated herself at a desk, 
and with pen in hand waited like a good 
soldier for orders. Elijah drew a roll con- 
taining names from his pocket, and began 
to read, making comments as he went on. 

“Now we are ready. First, address one 
of these missives to Paul Horntickler, of 
Ward 1. Mr. H. is a rising young lawyer, 
and said to be worth something in his own 
right." 

Lucy wrote the address as directed. 

“The next is Mr. John Jones, of Ward 
2 — a rich old fellow — gouty as an aider- 
man. It is said he wraps Ward 2 around 
his finger.” 

“And you propose to wrap Mr. Jones 
around your finger," said Lucy, between 
the name and address. 

“Never mind, dear, write on, for time is 
precious. Frederick Pille comes next. 
He is an honest brewer — a beer-maker, of 
course ; but beer represents capital, and 
capital stands for influence.” 

“Shall I write the address in German ?" 

“If you please. What a capital idea 1 
It will be flattering to him to know that we 
understand his mother tongue. While I 
think of it, I want you to rub up a little on 
that “Watch on the Rhine.” The Diftch 
adore it, and if anybody can make a piano 
talk, it is you.” 

“0 father, I fear you are bringing dis- 
grace on our house by inviting all this 
motley crew of American, Dutch and 
Irish — people who have but little in com- 
mon with each other, save in the idea of 
dividing the loaves and fishes. What will 
people say of it all 7 ” and Lucy turned to 
her father with an inquiring look. 

“What can they say — what dare they 
say?’’ asked Elijah, reddening. 

He reflected. 

“Well, I will curtail the list, and make 
it a little more select than I had intended. 
Here is policemaa George Somers. He js 


said to be the most popnlar man in Ward 
5. I must have him up here by all meana* 
By the way, 1 should like to hare hia 
counsel now.” 

With Elijah Moorhead to think waa to 
act, and he touched a belL A boj an- 
swered the summons. 

“Go to No. — , Street, and ask 

policeman Somers to step down here for a 
half an hour — not in uniform. Now be 
off.” 

The boy hastily departed. 

The remainder of the invitations were 
finished, and made into a package ready 
for the mail. 

Presently the door bell rang 

Lucy was leaving the room, but her fb* 
ther asked her to remain. 

Mr. Moorhead answered the door in per- 
son, and, as he expected, met the police- 
man, whom he graciously received and in- 
vited into his library. He introduced 
Somers to his daughter. The former 
bowed low, which the latter acknowledged 
with a smile and a slight inclination of the 
head. 

“Please be seated, sir,” said Mr. Moor- 
head, pointing to a chair. 

The officer sat down — a slight pause 
followed. 

“I have sent for you,” Mr. Moorhead be- 
gan, “to consult in reference to a little en- 
tertainment I propose to give to soma 
friends and acquaintances among the pol- 
iticians of the city. I hare frequently 
heard your shrewdness spoken of, and hare 
not the least doubt of its truth. I shall, 

I fear, have more than a host can do ; 
therefore I will be compelled to have an 
aid de camp, as it were, to assist me in the 
duties of receiving and entertaining the 
guests. In this dilemma, I have sent for 
you.” 

“You do me too great an honor, I fear, 
Mr. Moorhead, for I am but an humble 
patr 9 lman,” replied George, blushing like 
a girl, and stealing a sidelong glance at 
Lucy. 

“Nonsense, sir. One man is as good 
as another^ (Elijah made a mental reseda 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


U 


tion bere,) prorided he acts like a gentle- 
man.’* 

“I have no objection to serving you in 
any capacity, where I can be useful, provi- 
ded, of course, that I can obtaiu leave of 
absence from my oflficial duties.” 

“Oh 1 leave that matter to me, sir. I 
will see the Mayor and obtaiu leave of ab- 
sence for you.** 

“Very well.” 

“Then I shall consider it settled that you 
will assist me to receive and entertain our 
friends. I will assign Lucy as your assist- 
ant. I don’t suppose, however, that she 
will be very valuable in that line.’* 

' “I am sure, sir,” stammered George, 
“she would do much to hide my awkward- 
ness,” and ho stole another timid glance at 
the young lady. 

“Oh I certainly, sir ; I shall feel quite 
brave with an officer for a superior com- 
mander.’’ 

“The officer will not be on patrol duty,” 
ventured Mr. Somers. 

“So msich the worse, as I fear he will not 
be authorized to protect me nor ^ive com- 
niands in the name of his official standing 
in the community.” 

“It does not require brass buttons to 
make a strong ma.* protect the weak, and 
as for giving orders, I am sure that I shall 
have none to give, but should rather obey 
yours.’’ 

At a sign Lucy arose, and with a grace- 
ful nod to Mr. Somers, left the room. The 
two men sat in conversation for a half 
hour or more — the one broadly hinting at 
the Mayorality — the other listless in atten- 
tion. Then George Somers took his de- 
parture with a promise to be promptly on 
hand on the evening of the reception. 
Once away from the house, Somers stop- 
ped on a street corner and leaned against 
a lamp po8t(the lamp posts are the props 
of our police force) and thought. 

“For what had he been invited to that 
groat house, and put into such promi- 
nence?” If he had kept his wits about 
him he would not have been compelled to 
oak himself that simple interrogative. 

the boautiful young lady he met 


this merchant’s daughter ?” Then he re- 
membered that she was introduced as such. 
He tried in vain to recall a face as lovely 
as Miss Moorhead’s. He could think of 
none. Stella Gibbons was the nearest, 
but hers was not a beauty that dazzled and 
took one’s breath. It suddenly occurred 
to Somers that he might attract attention 
by standing so listlessly in such a public 
place. So he hastened home, and passed 
several acquaintances on the way without 
seeing them, so deeply was his mind en- 
gaged. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The poor need not always be unhappy. 
Where poverty is not so extreme as to de- 
prive one of the necessaries of life it may 
be endured even with complacency. A 
man who in some communities would be 
considered rich would in others be reckoned 
only in moderate circumstances. It is, 
therefore, by comparison that we are rich 
or poor. Balaam would doubtless have 
been considered rich in the possession of 
an ass, if none of his neighbors had been 
similarly fortunate. 

The only satisfaction that riches can 
ever bestow, is found in the fact that they 
enable us and those we love to satiate our 
tastes and appetites. It may be set down, 
therefore, as a rule that he that hath 
enough to-day, with a reasonable prospect 
for the same to morrow, is rich, while he 
that is on half rations to-day, and with a 
prospect of nothing to-morrow is poor. 
It is contentment, after all, that sweetens 
the crumbs of the poor, as it is sordid de- 
sire for gain that makes moldy the wheaten 
loaf of the rich. It requires a little philos- 
ophy to move evenly on .Miy plane of so- 
ciety. A sweet. disposition, an unsullied 
character, and a clear conscience are the 
props on which contentment rests her 
head. 

Mrs. Gibbons was a contented woman. 
She could manage, by dint ot hard work 
and rigid economy, to get enough for her- 
self and-children to eat and wear. She 
was pot without hope of sorpeth.ng better 


16 


NO MONEY I 


in the future. The time might come when 
she would be enabled to lay by something 
for a rainy day. Willie was put to school, 
but that did not cost much. Stella had a 
very fair education, thanks to the public 
schools. 

One day mother and daughter were bus- 
ily engaged in sewing, when they heard 
some one clambering up the stairway ; but 
supposing it to be some of the neighbors, 
gave little heed. Presently Mrs. Gibbons 
raised her eyes and beheld a venerable 
looking man standing in the doorway. 
His locks were white and his tall form 
slightly bent with age. There was a look 
of mild benevolence over-spreading his 
countenance, like a patch of sunshine on a 
meadow. As Mrs. Gibbons raised her eyes 
he seemed to be contemplating the scene 
before him with the gentle, kindly look of 
one who reckons all mankind as his friends. 

^'May I come in ?’’ he asked in a pleas- 
ant voice. 

“Certainly, sir, and welcome. Stella, 
place a chair for the gentleman.’’ 

The old gentleman accepted the proffered 
seat, and as he sat down his face showed 
signs of pain for a moment. 

am troubled a little with rheumatism 
in my old days, but I suppose it will not 
be many years until the disease will stop 
for want of material to work upon.** 

There was a slight pause and the stran- 
ger seemed to be thinking. He asked— 

‘‘Are you Mrs. Gibbons?*’ 

“I am.” 

“I thought so. My name is Peckover. 
I am one of the trustees of the Lodge to 
which your husband belonged.” 

“Indeed j” and Mrs. Gibbons and Stella 
opened their eyes. 

“I should like to inquire if yon have ever 
been visited by any of my predecessors in 
office ?” 

“There has been no one to see us.** 

“As I expected. I find that the last 
Board has been very derelict in their duty ; 
but I assure you, Mrs. Gibbons, that I 
shall try to atone for their short- comings. 
It is our duty to visit the widows and or- 
phans of deceased members, and ascertain 


their condition, and, if in need, to vellowt 
them.*’ 

“We had almost come to the conclusion 
that since my husband’s death the Lodge 
had forgotten us.’* 

“By no means; but you know that Wf 
have a great many kinds of people to deal 
with. Sometimes men get into places of 
trust who do not properly discharge their 
duties ; but I hope that you have not suf- 
fered by this seeming neglect.” 

“By no means, sir ; thanks to good 
health, we have been able to earn enough 
to eat and wear.*’ 

“God be praised. But, Mrs. Gibbons, 
allow me to inquire as to your means of 
obtaining a support for yourself and family. 
I do not ask this question from idle curios- 
ity, but with an earnest desire to render 
you assistance in case it is required.” 

There was such a calm, benignant ex- 
pression — such a kindly, fatherly solicitude 
visible on the countenance of the speaker, 
that Mrs. Gibbons felt that she could trust 
him with a secret if she had one. 

“We earn our living by sewing for some 
rich families on Eighth Street. By strict 
economy, we make ends meet. But oh I 
Sir, if sickness should come, or those who 
are now our friends shonld desert us, I 
tremble for the result ;’* and a tear glistened 
in the good woman’s eye at the bare thought 
of such a dire calamity. 

hope God may spare you such a trial 
But never fear ; you have friends who 
stand ready and willing to assist you aa 
far as they are able. Our Order, whose 
principles we cherish, commands us te 
visit the sick, and suc4>or the widow and 
the fatherless. Friends may turn away 
when the frown of adversity chills us with 
its icy breath ; but then it is that Odd Fel- 
lowship comes like a friend to our aid. 
You may think me over-enthusiastic, Mad- 
am, but had you lived as long as I, and 
witnessed the daily ministrations of our 
beloved Order, I think you would agree 
with me that its charities have not been 
wasted, nor the years ofits existence spent 
in idleness.*’ 

doubt not that you aro correct, fok | 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


IT 


haye.^.known instances myself in which 
great suffering would have occurred but 
for the assistance given by your Order.” 

”Mrs. Gibbons, may I ask if you are con- 
tented in this house? It seems to me 
your surroundings arsi not pleasant.” 

“They are not, sir ; but we have lived 
in' this house so long — my husband died 
here — that it seems like home. I should 
not like to leave it.” 

“Not for a better one?*’ 

“For my children’s sake I would ; but 
the old place has become as dear to them 
as to me, and we don’t care to leave it now.’* 

“I wouldn’t like to go either,” put in 
Wiilie. 

^“Oh ! yon wouldn’t, eh? Come here, 
my little man,” said the old gentleman, 
smiling and looking fondly on the child. 

Willie went up to Mr. Peckover without 
the least hesitation. 

“Now your name, sir?” 

Willie hesitated. 

“Tell the gentleman your 'name,** com- 
manded Mrs. Gibbons. 

“Willie Gibbons.” 

“Willie Gibbons. Well, that is a very 
nice name, and you are a very fine-looking 
boy. I hope we shall be good friends. 
Have you a pocket-knife ?” 

“No sir, but mamma is going to buy me 
one as soon as she can spare the money.’’ 

“Well, if you will go with me over to the 
hardware store after a spell. I’ll save your 
mamma that trouble.’’ 

Willie’s eyes sparkled for joy. 

“Can I go, mamma ?’’ 

“If the gentleman wishes.” 

“Then, my son, that matter is settled; ” 
and turning to Mrs. Gibbons, he said; “ I 
see that you have no sewing-machine.’’ 

“No, sir, Stella and I use our fingers.” 

“You could do more work and much 
more easily with a machine.” 

“Oh, yes sir; but machines are expen- 
sive. Eighty dollars is a good deal of 
money for poor people.” 

“Yes, eighty dollars is a good deal of 
money; but if spent in labor-saving ma- 
chines, it is not wasted.” 

“I'have looked forward^ hoping and hop- 


ing that some piece of good luck would 
overtake us by which we would be able 
to buy a machine. But, sir, I fear there is 
no such good luck in store for us.” 

“And you. Miss, would you prefer a 
sewing-machine to a piano ?” 

Stella blushed slightly at being thus ad- 
dressed. 

“A piano would be a useless piece of 
furniture to me in a home like this, espec- 
ially as I do not play. I <think I would 
greatly prefer a machine.” 

“Spoken like a sensible girl. In these 
days the greater number of young ladies 
prefer a piano ; in fact, they spend most of 
their time banging away on the keys, as 
if their blessed lives depended on their 
knowing how to play. It wasn’t so in my 
young days ; but I suppose it is all right, 
for if we were to come to a stand-still as a 
people we would stagnate before long. 
Well, I must get my crazy old limbs going 
once more, as I have some business down 
town that must be looked after.” With 
many cringes of pain, Mr. Peckover worked _ 
himself up to a standing position. 

“I shall come quite often if you will aL 
low me, for I feel a deep interest in your 
welfare.” . i 

“We shall be pleasea lo see you ; and 
shall remember your Kind words to us,” 
replied Mrs. Gibbons, rising. 

Willie had stationed himself like a sen- 
tinel at the door. The oromised pocket- 
knife was engrossing a verv liberal share 
of his thoughts at that moment. 

No sooner did Mr. Peckover make the 
first step toward the door than the child 
with his hat on, advanced and caught the 
old gentleman by the hand. 

“Why, Willie, you should not be so free 
with strangers,” said his mother, reprov- 
ingly. 

“No harm done, mv son. There, come 
now, and we will be off.” After bidding 
mother and daughter ffood-day, the two 
went out It was the old. old story of 
childhood and old age. One all eagerness 
the other all pain. 

Mother and daughter sat and worked in 
silence for a few moments after Mr. Peck- 


16 


NO MONEY; 


over and Willie had gone, then Stella 
turned to her mother and asked — 

“Why did that old man ask so many 
questions ?’’ 

“Because he wishes to learn something 
of our condition, I suppose.’’ 

“I don’t believe people have any right to 
come here and make such inquiries as he 
did.” i 

“But suppose he was asking with a view 
of assisting us?” 

“But he did not assist us.** 

“You don’t know these secret society 
people as well as I do. They never tell 
you what they mean to do, and they often 
do things that you least expect. Your fa- 
ther used to tell me that it is the boast of 
his society that they give where it is needed 
without talking about it publicly.” 

“I’ll forgive him this time as he has 
been kind enough to buy Willie a knife ; 
but, mother, how do we know this man is 
not an impostor ?” 

Mrs. Gibbons looked a little uneasy, as 
it had not occurred to her in that light. 

“Why, my child, I can see no motive 
he- could have in view.” 

j “There is no telling. There are so many 
wicked people in the world, and the poor 
generally come in for a share of their at- 
tention. But suppose that this man was an 
impostor, has he not taken brother Willie 
away with him ?” 

The bare thought that the child might be 
stolen away, caused Mrs. Gibbons to turn 
a little paler. ' 

“Put' on your bonnet, daughter, and run 
down on the street and see if you can find 
Willie, and bring him home.” 

Stella needed no second bidding, as her 
own fears were already excited. In a mo- 
ment she was gone, her feet pattering 
lightly on the old staircase as she rushed 
down into the court below. 

CHAPTER V. 

How many things do we see on the 
streets of a city that are passingly strange j 
They seem unaccountable, yet a word of 
explanation would make them all plain as 


noon-day. We see two ladies hurrying 
along the street, one weeping and the other 
dry-eyed. Why does one weep? Is it 
sorrow? Is it anger? Is it joy? There 
is mystery! 

Again, we see a man plunging along 
the crowded way, elbowing right and left, 
and evidently laboring under some terrible 
mental excitement. There must be a 
cause that prompts a public display of 
such strong emotions. Men and women 
seek to present a calm, self-possessed ap- 
pearance when passing in review before 
their fellow-mortals. We are admonished, 
then, when seeing strange conduct upon 
the street to judge with charity, and not 
too quickly condemn the result without 
knowing the cause. 

If any one had seen Stella swooping 
down like a bird descending from its lofty 
perch, with an almost frantic look mant- 
ling her lovely face, he would have thought 
her just setting out on a flying visit to 
Longview Asylum. She did not pause in 
the court, but hurried into the street, ex- 
pecting that her worst fears woula be in- 
stantly confirmed. She cast a hasty glance, 
first up then down the street. A soot- 
begrimmed huckster was singing from his 
wagon in stentorian tones, “ Yar — oal — 
rags, and o’ iron I ’’ drowning the noise 
and confusion of passing vehicles. These 
noises were as familiar as the strokes of 
the bell of the steeple clock. Instinctively 
she hastened, almost ran, down the street. 
At the. first crossing made another slight 
halt and gave another hasty glance in all 
directions, not even forgetting to look 
back over the track she had just traveled. 
Willie was not in view. She hastened on, 
the tears starting in her eyes, almost 
blinding her. On she went for another 
half square, and. Oh joy! she beheld the 
child coming leisurely homeward. He was 
deeply engrossed. He had fished a pine 
stick out of the gutter, and was engaged 
in the primitive American pastime^ — whit- 
tling. He saw nothing but that knife, and 
actually stumbled against a hitching post, 
so deeply was he absorbed. The jay of 
Stella found expression in catching up hnr 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


19 


brother and kissing him passionately. 
Willie was surprised at this sudden on- 
slaught, but it was only momentary. 

^Sister, just look what .a good knife- 
two blades — both razor-metal. I tell you 
it cuts splendid j ” and to exemplify his 
words, he carved a deep shaving from the 
soft pine. 

“ Come home, Willie, and we will talk 
about that afterward.’’ 

She took her brother’s hand in her own, 
and hurried him on. This put an end to 
his whittling, but it did not prevent his 
making a savage thrust at a dog that came 
nosing about him. Luckily for the dog, 
he saw the blow coming in time to. avoid 
it by springing away. He was the happi- 
est boy in the world. His return home 
was greeted with rapture by his anxious 
mother. 

“ Oh, mamma, that chap is a jolly old 
brick, isn’t he ? ” 

My son, come here,” taking him on 
her lap. Tell me, when did you learn to 
call gentlemen jolly old bricks?” 

“Why, Tom Jones says that is what his 
daddy is.” 

“ Never let me hear you talk that way 
agtin. Say he is a kind-hearted gentle- 
man.” Willie repeated. “Now that will 
do.” 

Stella felt a little cut up at her unjust 
suspicions of their visitor, but said nothing. 
The next day another heavy footstep was 
heard on the stairway. 

Presently a tall, sinewey-looking dray- 
man stood peering into the room. His 
sleeves were rolled up to his, elbows, and 
his sunburnt arms looked strong enough 
to have felled either Hercules or a mule 
with a blow. Taking off his hat, he drew 
forth a bandana from its crown and mop- 
ped his forehead, though it was February, 
but a warm day for the season. 

“D’ you do ? ’’ said he nodding. 

“ Pretty well, sir. What can we do for 
you? ” 

He looked at a ticket he held in his 
hand. “ Your name is — is— Mrs. Gib- 
bons?” 

“ Yes, sir ” 


“ All right. Where shall I put it ? ” 

“ Just dump it in at the east grating.” 

The drayman stared. 

“ It’ll break it up, ma’am.” 

“Oh, well, it makes no difference. We 
can’t afford to pay to put it in.” 

“Do I understand you right that you 
want it dumped into the cellar ? ” 

“ You do,” replied Mrs. Gibbons, red- 
dening a little under conduct she consid- 
ered amounting almost to rudeness. And 
then the opinion of this man and this wo- 
man, so far as it affected the other, exactly 
coincided : each thought the other a fool. 

The drayman mused a moment, and 
then, as if half addressing the woman and 
half soliloquizing, said; 

“ It’s the first time in my life I ever 
heard of a sewing machine being dumped 
into a cellar. I’ve a notion to take it back 
to the company.” 

“ A sewing-machine I ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Why did you not say a sewing-ma- 
chine ? ” 

“ Because I supposed you knew all 
about it,” replied the drayman, doggedly. 

Stella could restrain her mirth no long- 
er, but gave way to' a merry laugh. Then 
the drayman caught up the refrain and 
guffawed loud and long. Mrs. Gibbons 
was the last to be seized with the conta- 
gion, but she enjoyed the ridiculousness of 
the situation no less from having been 
chief actor in it. 

“ To tell the truth,” she said, ** I hare 
not bought a sewing-machine } but I had 
bought a load of coal, and was expecting 
its delivery.” 

“ I can’t help that, ma’am. I have my 
orders j and here’s a letter. It may ex- 
plain, and while you read it I’ll put the 
machine on my shoulder and bring it up.” 

Mrs. Gibbons took the letter, and clip- 
ped the end of the envelope with the scis- 
sors, then unfolded the letter and read it 
aloud. 

CiKCiNNATi, Feb. 24th, 18 — 

Mrs. Gibbons ; Dear Madam — I 
brought up in our lodge last night the mat- 
ter of purchasing a sewing-machine for 


20 


NO MONEY; 


jou, and by a unanimous- rote they order- 
eii us to purchase a good one, and send it 
to you at once. In compliance with that 
resolution, we send you by the bearer one 
of an improved pattern, and hope that it 
will afford you as much pleasure in receiv- 
ing as it does the members of the lodge in 
bestowing it upon yon. With the regards 
of the lodge, 

I am fraternally yours, 

John Peckover, 

For Trustees of Lodge. 

This is good news,” said Mrs. Gibbons, 
turning to her daughter. But that impuls- 
ive creature laughed and cried in succeed- 
rngr breaths, and then threw her arms 
around her mother’s neck. 

While this little drama was being en- 
acted, Willie was thoughtful. He did not 
comprehend this sudden embracing of 
mother and sister, this weeping and laugh- 
ing. He always cried when he was hurt, 
and laughed when he was amused. After 
the first outburst of emotion of mother 
and daughter had partially subsided, Willie 
went softly up to his mother, and taking 
her hands in both his own, said, “ Mother, 
I want to tell you something.” 

' “ Well, what is it, my son ? ” 

“You won’t get angry, will you ?” and 
he twitched nervously at his mother’s 
fingers. 

“No, not at Willie.” 

“ Then I’ll tell you what it is. 1 want 
to trade my knife to Jeff Thompson for a 
dog.” 

“ Why?’’ inquired his mother. 

“ Because a dog is so much nicer than a 
knife. Jeff Thompson’s dog will bark 
when you tell him, and do ever so many 
nice things.” 

“ You would not part with the knife the 
gentleman gave you, I hope, for such a 
trifling creature as a dog.’’ 

“ Dogs are nice things to have, any way, 
said Willie,” as he turned away and looked 
out of the window. 

Stella began to grow nervous. “Why 
has not the man brought up the machine?” 
Hers was just such a nervous organization 
as would make a minute seem an hour 
when impatience had begun its work. She 
could wait no longer; she would go, and 


perhaps she could see him coming up with 
the machine on his shoulders, as Atlas 
carried the globe. She looked down, bnt 
she could not see him. She ran down into 
the court, and then out to the gate, but he 
was not to be seen even upon the street. 
Then Stella went sorrowfully back to her 
mother, bearing the sad tidings that they 
were doomed to disappointment, after all. 

The nondescript that furnished uhe mo- 
tive power of the vehicle that conveyed 
the machine to its destination was a mule 
of more than ordinary size. Being left by 
his owner in the street, he stood quietly 
enjoying the rest that a clean conscience 
is sure to beget. He flopped his large 
ears as if to attract attention to their ca- 
pacity for hearing the feed call. When 
other horses passed by and put back their 
ears as if they wanted to give him a nip, 
his stoicism was not in the least disturbed. 
He was above noticing taunts from such 
ill-tempered cousins. Presently a farmer 
came along with a load of fresh hay, and, 
as ill luck would have it, stopped his team 
when directly opposite his muleship, to 
make some inquiries. The mule nipped a 
mouthful from the load. It no doubt 
tasted sweet, and reminded him of his 
colthood days when he gamboled on the 
green award of his country home. Just 
as it began to look like a permanent feast, 
the farmer drove on. The mule stepped 
up to get another parting bite, and doubt- 
less, like people following a temptation, he 
had no idea of going so far, but actually 
followed the load of hay down town. 
Therefore when the drayman came down 
to get the machine, he was as much aston- 
ished at not finding his mule and dray as 
Stella was at not finding its owner. He 
did not hesitate a moment, but went rapid- 
ly down street, inquiring of every acquaint- 
ance he met for the missing chattels. He 
soon got on the track of the faithless mule, 
and succeeded in overhauling him, at the 
distance of three or four squares. The 
drayman went into a rage, caught the 
bridle with the left hand, and with his 
right dealt the poor beast a savage blow. 

The mule only winced, but the mao 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


II 


groaned, for he had bruised his fist terri- 
bly. This only increased his passion. He 
sprang on the dray, turned the mule back, 
and began beating him unmercifully. A 
policeman warned him to desist or he 
would lock him up in the station-house. 
He finally cooled off by the time he got 
back to his destination. Then he shoul- 
dered the machine and bore it up-stairs. 

Stella’s spirits rose at the sight of the 
machine as would the mercury in a glass 
tube if suddenly plunged in boiling water. 
The machine was actually in view. She 
could see and feel it. The man set down 
the machine, and asked some one to sign 
his bill of lading. Stella signed it, and 
the man went sulkily away. He felt vexed 
at that mule. What the reader knows 
about the delay was ever an unexplained 
mystery to the mother and daughter ; they 
had no feelings now save those of grati- 
tude. What to them had seemed an un- 
lathomable abyss, a thing in the dim dis- 
tance, had been crossed as if by magic. 
They could not comprehend how people 
with whom they had no acquaintance could 
feel such a deep interest in their welfare. 
Women are thinkers, but not reasoners. 
They go from cause to effect at a single 
leap. Man gropes his way, stumbling arid 
often falling, but ever pushing on. He is 
not unlike a hound on the trail. Woman 
often goes astray, but always returns to 
some point of certainty, and tries again. 
When man reaches his conclusion, he finds 
woman there ahead of him. In a word, 
she seems to know by intuition what he 
Itearns by slow process. 

Stella unlocked the machine, and put 
her dainty foot on the pedals, and set the 
wheels in motion. She had previously 
learned to operate one. She lost no time 
in threading the needle and putting it in 
operation. Her delight scarcely knew any 
bounds. They both felt that they were 
now on the high road to fortune. Ignor- 
ance of the future U sometimes bliss in 
the present. 


I CHAPTER VI. ^ 

Some chapters back we left George 
! Somers on his way from the conference 
j with Elijah Moorhead at his mansion on 
Eighth street. His heart was fluttering 
like a schoolboy’s who has for the first 
time been permitted to march on a paral- 
lel line (the width of the road separating 
them) with his fair inamorata in panta* 
lets to a party. He now wanted to find a 
quiet place where he could sit down and 
think. That place was his room, and 
thither he repaired with more than ordina* 

' ry celerity of movement. Once in his 
i bedroom, he sat down to reflect. He went 
back to the time when he had been sum- 
moned to appear at the mansion of the 
merchant. He recalled every act of his 
own — every act, look and word of Moor- 
head’s — with the vividness which only 
important events of life photograph them, 
selves on the brain. He could have col- 
lared a law-breaker and marched him off 
to the station-house, and forgotten the 
circumstance before the ink of the record 
of the prisoner’s name had dried on the 
register ; but his facing a pair of beauti- 
ful, bewitching eyes was a great event. 
Somehow he felt that he could sit and look 
at that charming face and hear the melody 
of that sweet voice forever, without grow- 
ing weary. He threw himself on the bed. 
He should long since have been asleep, for 
he must needs be on watch all night. It 
was his duty to watch while most people 
slept, and sleep while most people watched. 
Millions of dollars, depended on his fidelity 
— a trust he had never broken ; yet if the 
world had been placed in his keeping, and 
the keys of the infernal regions in his 
pocket, he could not have slept. The more 
he tried to woo the goddess of sleep, the 
more she refused to be wooed. She is a 
coy girl — this goddess is. She does not 
i^always come at the beck. We pursue — 
she flies. He tried to listen to the tick, 
of the old clock on the mantel, hoping 
that its monotone would send him quietly 
to the land of sleep. By and by he forgot 
to count, and then his thoughts went by 
easy stages into the one all-absorbing * 


1 


22 


NO MONEY; 


theme of Miss Moorhead. Had they been 
equals in life, his mind would have been 
comparatively easy, for he should then 
have laid siege to the castle at once. But 
alas 1 she was rich and he was a poor po- 
liceman, destined to deal with thieves and 
law-breakers, and receive no thanks from 
any one in return. He dared not hope 
that he could be anything more to her than 
a servant. She might smile on him just 
as she smiled on hundreds of others. It is 
natural for some people to smile even when 
there is a sadness at the heart. Again he 
began the oft-repeated task of counting the 
Tibrations of the lazy pendulum as it wag- 
ged to and fro. He missed a number (it 
was ninety-nine), and then his mind wan- 
dered, aimlessly drifting back to the old 
theme. Suddenly a new train of thoughts 
flashed upon him, and he sat bolt upright 
in bed. This was a free country, and men 
of merit could make positions for them- 
selves. If he was worthy, he could make 
himself the peer of any man in the land. 
The way was open — plain as the noonday 
sun could make it. He would try one of 
the professions, and earn for himself a 
name and rank in society. With this con- 
soling thought, he fell asleep. 

On the following day Mr. Duforth, an 
attorney of prominence, received a visitor 
in the undress of a police officer, who pro- 
' needed to unfold a little plan he had ma- 
tured of studying law. 

The attorney propounded a few questions 
touching his sincerity, and, finding him 
serious in his attentions, concluded to loan 
him the necessary books as he should need 
them. He was constrained to extend this 
favor to Somers, as he had known him a 
number of years as a faithful officer and a 
man of unblemished character. It re- 
quired less than an hour to fix all prelim- 
inaries, and George bore home that pon- 
derous corner-stone of the judicial fabric — 
Blackstone’s Commentaries. It was ar- 
ranged that he should recite every alter- 
nate afternoon, which would enable him to 
advance rapidly. He went to work like a 
man in earnest. He divided his time. 
From six in the morning until noon he 


slept ; and from on© o’clock until six in 
the evening he studied. Then at seven he 
went on duty, and remained there untii 
morning. He had a strong constitution, 
or it would scarcely have carried him 
through such arduous labors. 

But George Somers had by no means 
forgotten the coming reception. How 
could he do so? He frequently during 
the week looked over his wardrobe to ex- 
amine its contents and settle upon what he 
should wear. Lady reader — if I should 
be so fortunate as to have One — do not I, 
beg you, allow the gentlemen to humbug 
you with the assertion that all the vanity» 
all the primping, and all the thinking 
about dress, originates in your dear little 
heads. The man that does not desire to 
be tidy and well dressed, when about to 
appear before’ the woman he loves, is 
scarcely worth being loved in return. 
There are slouchy slovens roaming around 
the confines of respectability, whose clothes 
would look just as well if hung over a 
flour barrel, yet they are the exception. 
How these people ever get married is more 
than we know. We do know that nos^elists 
always black-ball them. George Somers . 
was one of those well-proportioned men 
who would have looked well in almost any 
attire. His head sat jauntily on his broad 
shoulders, and he was straight as an arrow, 
— just such a man as a sensible girl would 
naturally fall in love with. 

Somers had almost counted the hours 
when it would be necessary to appear at 
the reception. He had even arranged in 
his mind what he should say to Miss Lucy 
on the occasion. Lut alasl the finely ar- 
ranged speeches of young lovers, like those 
of youthful orators, fly when faced by the 
audience. The day, or rather the even- 
ing of the day, on which it was arranged 
the reception should be held, came at last, 
and it found our hero dressed in his best 
suit of broadcloth. He found himself in 
the vicinity of the Moorehead residence at 
least half an hour before the time named 
in the invitation. So he avoided the house, 
and strolled up Central Avenue to kill 
time. A brother policeman wanted to 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


U 


know where he got so much style. George 
told him he could afford it, and passed on. 
At the appointed hour he boldly rang the 
bell, and was received by a servant, who 
ushered him into the grand parlor. Mr. 
Moorhead arose and received him gra- 
ciously. 

“ Glad to see you on time, Mr. Somers. 
I like to see men prompt, whether upon a 
matter of business or of social inter- 
course.” 

If Elijah had known how much of 
George’s promptness was due to his daugh- 
ter’s influence, he might not have so 
warmly commended it. 

George thanked him for his very flatter- 
ing opinion, but was all the while wonder- 
ing if some change had not been made in 
the programme by which he would be rob- 
bed of the presence of Miss Lucy. He 
had not long to wait, for there was a slight 
rustle of silk, and then the young lady 
swept into the room. He arose and sa- 
luted her with a bow, that if not as grace- 
ful as that of a dancing master, yet did 
him credit. Miss Lucy smiled an ac- 
knowledgement. George felt that his face 
was on fire, and his only hope was that if 
his blushing was noticed it might be at- 
tributed to bashfulness. 

“ I am a little behind time, I fear, dear 
father; but you must always allow us 
ladies at least five minutes grace — to 
pul on our gloves.” 

“Yes, the days of grace once lost me a 
debt ; for the firm failed between the time 
the draft was due and the end of the three 
days allowed by law. But we are not here 
to talk of that sort of business. Now, Mr. 
Somers, and you my daughter, I desire 
that you act as my aids-de-camp. Mr. 
Somers will please stand in the hall and 
receive the company and ’^resent them to 
me each in turn.” 

“This will be dry work,” thought Somers. 

“And you, Lucy — well, I guess you had 
better assist Mr. Somers in the hall.” 

Glorious words, fitly spoken I 

Just at this point there was a pull at the 
bell. 

“There, take your place now,” said 


Elijah, hurridly running his fingers 
through his front locks, and patting his 
back hair gently. He arose and stood wait- 
ing the company. 

Mr. Somers and Miss Moorhead hastened 
to their appropriate places. The gentle- 
man opened the door, and admitted Mr. 
Fred Phille. Frederick was taken by the 
arm, and before he had time to repeat 
Yacob Robinson backward, he was ushered 
into the august presence of the Grand 
Mogul. The solemn and stately gra,ndeur 
of the place dazed his sight, but he soon 
got used to it. 

Paul Horntickler, of Ward 1, was the 
next arrival, He shared a fate similar to 
that of his German predecessor. Between 
these arrivals of guests there was opportuni- 
ty for a little side talk between those who 
were acting the part of ushers ; but the 
thread of discourse was frequently broken. 

Somers ventured to remark “that Mr. 
Moorhead was doing a great honor to 
those he was receiving.” 

“Perfect folly, I fear, Mr Somers. But 
I certainly cannot agree with him in select- 
ing nationalities so difierent — ’’Bell rings ; 
another arrival ; and George almost ready 
to curse the intruder, opens the door and 
admits him. 

Having again been left to themselves, 
George asks that she will please proceed. 

“Well, really I have forgotten what I 
was speaking about, but something very 
foolish I know.’* Their eyes met in a sin- 
gle glance, and then hers modestly sought 
the floor. 

“No, not foolish. Miss Moorhead. You 
were speaking of your father inviting a 
promiscuous mass of us, I think.” 

“Excuse me , sir,” the color mounting 
to her fair cheeks; “I did not mean to in- 
clude you ; for be it understood that you 
have attained the rank of an aid-de-camp.” 

“I appreciate' the honor of being an aid 
to so fair a lady.” 

“Oh, sir, not to me,*’ she replied turning 
crimson, “but to father. I am only of 
your own rank.** 

Boll rings, and this was just what Lucy 
had been wishing for, that she might, re- 


*24 'NO MONEY: 


gain her ' composure and drive the blood 
from her cheeks. 

When George came back, Lucy was 
marble. 

*'Do you sing, Mr* Somers?” she in* 
quired. 

“A little.” 

“Ah, I am glad you do ; for it has been 
ordained by the powers that I shall enter- 
tain the audience with a liitle music. 
You can assist me.” 

“I will try, Miss Moorhead ; but I fear 
my voice will only bring discord.” 

“I will try you before the present audi- 
ence, and if you do bring a little discord it 
will make no difference, as I presume they 
will not be very critical.” 

Some time elapsed since the last arrival, 
ft was presumed that all were present. 
There being a call for music, George es- 
corted Miss Moorhead to the grand piano. 

* The voices of the guests went down to a 
k)w' hum, and finally hushed entirely as the 
lady’s fingers touched the ivory keys. 

“What shall we sing,” she whispered. 
George Somers, in a low tone, suggested 
that perhaps “Auld Lang Syne” would be 
as appropriate as anything else, and then 
' the well known words rang out; 

“ Should auld acquaintance be forgot 
And never brought to mind ; 

SLould auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And songs of Auld Lang Syne. 

For Auld T ang Syne we meet to-night. 

For Auld Lang Syne ; 

Vo sing the songs oar fathers sang. 

In days of Auld Lang Syne, " etc. 

The first verse brought grand applause, 
and no wonder. Lucy was not only an 
excellent musician, but a sweet singer. 
George Somers was a musician of no in- 
ferior merit, while his tenor ought to have 
entitled him to have a place on Theo. 
Thomas’ staff. Lucy herself was not a lit- 
tle astonished ; she had no idea that he 
was such an excellent singer. Lucy loved 
music, and she almost forgot to keep up 
her part in listening to George. 

She now whisperingly proposed that 
George should sing a piece of his own se- 
lection. His modesty forbade this selec- 
tion. Lucy asked him could he sing the 


“Star Spangle Banner.” He would tij if 
she wished. 

“Yes she wished to hear him.” 

Then she gave him the pitch- on the 
piano, and played the accompaniment. 
George launched out. He put his very 
soul into the words. Its effect was electri- 
fying on his hearers They seemed almost 
spellbound until the voice had ceased; then 
came a round of applause. 

“Well done, Mr. Somers,” whispered 
Lucy. 

George blushed but kept his back to the 
audience. 

Together they sang, “Watch on the 
Rhine.” 

This excited the German portion of the 
visitors, and it was noticed that they were 
loudest in their praises of the song. 

Miss Moorhead arose, and bowed her- 
self out. George Somers accompanied 
her as far as the hall. 

“Mr. Somers, I am under many obliga- 
tions to you for your kindness, and 1 am 
sure father is equally obliged. Good 
evening, sir and she extended her hand. 
Somers took the proffered little hand, in 
his own and pressed it tenderly lest he 
should break it. Their eyes met, and then 
she turned and glided away. 

George stood a moment as if frozen to 
the spot and then turned and re-entered 
the grand saloon. Several whispered con- 
versations were being held by little groups 
about the room. We have room for but 
one, which is as follows: 

First Speaker — “Policeman Somers le 
sweet on the Governor’s girl.” 

Second Speaker — Yaw, dat is so, she 
looks sweet to him.” 

First Speaker — The Governor would 
sour on that match, or I’m much mista- 
ken. 

Second Speaker — “Yaw.” 

The first speaker was in some doubt 
whether his Teutonic friend meant to as- 
sent to the first or last part of his propo- 
sition, and so changed the subject. 

Supper was announced, and the doors of 
the spacious dining-rooms were thrown 
open. The banquet had been prepared 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


25 


‘with skill, and the guests did 
’ ample justice to it. Af- 
ter the plates had disappeared, Madeira, 
Port, and Native wines were introduced. 
The’ bottles and' glasses clicked as they 
toiibhed. After a sufficient amount of 
wine had been taken to warm the hearts 
and limber the tongues of the guests, some 
one called for a speech from the host. 
Elijah had' waited with palpitating heart 
for this auspicious moment. 

He arose slowly to his feet and looked 
patronizingly over his guests. 

‘“Fellow Citizens’’ — a considerable pause 
— “I thank you from the bottom of my 
heart for thus calling upon me. I presume 
it is your wish that I should say something 
of our city affairs, as many of you are now 
holding official positions. [Cries of that’s 
the ticket.] There is no doubt some mal- 
feasance among high officials, but in the 
' main 1 think it can be said that our affairs 
' are reasonably well administered. I have 
no heart, gentlemen, to hound the man 
who looks after the interests of his friends, 
[prolonged applause] We all have our 
friends and it is but the natural instinct of 
our hearts to help those who help us. 
[cheers] Now geptlemen, this is a great 
city, but we are surrounded by a cordon of 
fast growing towns — Louisville, Indiana- 
polis, Dayton, Columbus, Portsmouth and 
Lexington. They are all trying to take 
away from us our commerce, the result of 
years of honest toil. But they cannot get 
this trade if we are true to ourselves- 
Now, in order that Cincinnati may hold her 
position as "^Queen of the West,” we must 
make internal improvements on a grand 
scale. If I were Mayor of the city, I should 
build a railroad from the top of Vine Street 
hill into Mill Creek valley. I would take 
dirt enough from the hill to fill up the 
valley, thus opening up a large scope of 
territory for building purposes. This 
would furnish labor for hands as well as 
for ourselves. The newspapers might 
, snarl a Httle, [groans] but they do not run 
C-incinnati by any means. Then we need 
. tuore extensive park than we have at 
' present — a place where the poor can breathe 


the pure air ofheaven and our honest Ger- 
mans can drink their national beverage in 
shady groves, and smoke their pipes in 
peace. [Great applause.] '^’^e sewerage 
of the city needs a thorough overhauling. 
Many of them put down years ago of soft 
brick, should be replaced with pure 
limestone. The river commerce should be 
encouraged. We want more wharf room. 
The city should at her own expense build 
a line of first-class steamers, and run them 
to Southern ports, thus bringing us trade 
for millions of dollars worth of our manu- 
factured goods, annually. There are a 
great many minor things that ought to be 
corrected. The traffic in skunk-skins, 
ought to be prohibited. 

The throwing of green hides upon the 
pavement ought to be prohibited. There 
ought to be a law restraining sewing-ma- 
chine men and life insurance agents within 
the boundary of decorum. [Laughter and 
applause.] But, gentlemen, I shall not 
occupy your time longer. Again thanking 
you for your presence, as well as the honor 
you have done me, I will not detain you 
longer.’’ 

Elijah took his seat after this demagog- 
ical speech, and Doctor Peddigoss arose 
and addressed the assembly thus: 

“Gentlemen, I propose Mr. Elijah Moor- 
head for next mayor of Cincinnti. 

“All who are in favor, say aye.” The 
ayes that answered were long drawn and 
emphatic. 

“I wish to say, furthermore, gentlemen” 

“Is Doctor Peddigoss present?” asked 
a servant coming from the door. 

“Yes, what is it ?” asked the Doctor 
turning round. 

“Some one at the door wants yon to come 
at once — bad case.” 

The Doctor was always keenly alive at 
the cry of a patient, if he had means. 

When he came back from the door, he 
said, “Gentlemen, I must bid you good- 
night. Some of the riff-raff down in Ward 
6 are sick — very sick, so I am told ?” 

“Who ?” asked George Somers. 

“Mrs. Gibbons’ girl.” 


26 


NO MONEY j , 


‘‘I regret to leave you, gentlemen, but as 
ward physician I suppose it’s my duty 
and after another glass of wine, he buttoned 
up his coat and went out. Other speeches 
were made, but we fear they must pass into 
oblivion by reason of the great length of 
this chapter. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Paul Annear was the son of a wealthy 
real estate owner, and generally did as he 
pleased, and he usually pleased to be a 
very bad young man. Old Annear owned 
among other things, a large number of 
tenement houses, and he was infinitely 
more interested in seeing how much rent 
he could squeeze out of the poor for a 
shabby hovel than bringing up his son in 
a way that would make him a good citizen. 
Left to nurse his own unbridled passions, 
Paul, now just entering upon his majority, 
was as graceless a scamp as ever aired his 
heels in Ward 5. 

Nature had endowed him with a passable 
face, but there was a twitching of the 
nether lip that indicated insincerity. He 
could, when he chose, assume the role ot 
a gentleman, but, alasl he was more to be 
feared in that character than when playing 
the more natural one of a rowdy. He had 
several times been embroiled in election 
rows with various results. Sometimes he 
was terribly beaten, at others he was the 
conqueror. The police all knew, and some 
of the more timid ones feared him. To 
arrest and bring him before the police 
court amounted to nothing. He always 
had money to meet his fines, and friends 
to furnish the influence to keep him out of 
prison. The prosecuting attorney, that 
fearless champion of justice was seen by 
Paul’s friends just prior to any important 
trial, and while his voice was fierce in' de- 
manding punishment, his indictment was 
weak. You need not tell me that blind 
justice is enthroned on the city seal — her 
voice is weak in the city courts. The jus- 
tice on our city’s escutcheon has no greater 
influence in shaping that article in her 
courts than has the golden balls of the 


pawnbroker in exciting feelings of remorse 
in the bosom of that pittileas falcon. We 
sometimes get honest, faithful judges, men 
who want to do right, but there is too 
much latitude invested in that important 
tribunal. A poor man is caught up by 
the police on a frivolous charge (perhaps 
he has insulted the policeman,) and goes 
before the court. The poor fellow is not 
able to employ counsel, and is compelled 
to seek the advice of those miserable shys- 
ters that hang about Ninth street like a 
gang of hungry wolves dogging the flanks 
of a retreating army, hoping to fatten on 
the flesh and blood of the fallen. 

The trial comes on — a hasty one ; for 
there is a large docket to be gone through 
in a limited space of time. The judge has 
only time to hear but a smattering of the 
testimony, and then, with an imperial wave 
of the hand that would have done credit 
to a Nero, orders the prisoner to the work- 
house for six months or a year. Such is 
the abuse of justice in a city. 

This gi aceless scamp would occasion- 
ally take business spells, and assist his 
father in the collection of his monthly 
rents. It was during one of these busi- 
ness visits that he had seen Stella Gibbons, 
for they lived in one of his father’s houses. 
Her beauty excited his passions, and he 
inwardly resolved to add her to the list of 
his victims. He sought to pay his ad- 
dresses to her, but his character was too 
well known in the ward. Besides this, 
with a woman’s instinct, she divined that 
his purposes were not honorable. He had 
tried again and again to secure her com- 
pany to balls and picnics, but she positively 
refused to have anything to do with him. 
Nettled at these repulses, he had set to 
work to accomplish his infernal purposes 
by other and more cowardly means. He 
finally found a hackmau who had but re- 
cently served a term in the penitentiary 
for some heinous outrage against an un- 
protected female. He succeeded, by the 
free use of money, in bribing this man, 
McGary, to enter his service. 

Young Annear had made himself fa- 
miliar with Stella’s habit of taking gooda 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


27 


to their owners late in the evening, and re- 
turning after dusk. He had further no- 
ticed that in returning home she usually 
took one route. He had seen her go forth 
late on the evening in question, and had 
dogged her a short distance, but turned 
into a cross street and sought his confrere 
in the person of McGary. The hack was 
brought down, and drawn up near the 
side walk on Second street at the crossing 
of the alley that divides the square between 
Broadway and Sycamore streets. By tak- 
ing this position they could either turn up 
or dov/n Second street, or dash through 
the alley to the public landing. They had 
waited probably two hours; the pedestri- 
ans along the street were few and far be- 
tween; the business houses were all closed, 
and the private watchman had made his 
rounds to see that the doors were all se- 
cure. Presently a female figure was seen 
coming up the street. Both men stood 
near the door of the hack. The female 
came still nearer, and Annear saw by the 
light of a gas lamp that it was his victim. 
As she was passing the hack he accosted 
her. She stopped and in the act of turn- 
ing round he threw a heavy horse-blanket 
over her head, at the same time seizing 
her around the waist and and attempting 
to force her into the vehicle. Although 
frightened almost out of her wits the girl 
struggled and fought her captors with a 
spirit that was born of despair. The 
struggles frightened the horses so badly 
that the hackman could do nothing more 
than hold them. The blanket was rapidly 
doing its work — Stella was being smother- 
ed. Her efforts were becoming weaker 
and weaker, and the villain was congratu- 
lating himself on an easy victory when a 
man suddenly ran out of the alley. Paul 
heard his approach and dropped 
the girl to face this new danger. The 
man, who proved to be the private watch- 
man, seemed to take in the situation at a 
glance. He caught Paul by the left arm, 
but the latter dealt him a blow that would 
have felled an ox. The man fell quiver- 
ing in every limb. The scoundrel turned 
to renew his assault upon Stella. Smoth- 


ered and exhausted she lay upon the 
ground as helpless as an infant. Two po- 
licemen, having heard the blow that felled 
the private watchman, were coming on a 
run — ^it was patrolman Jeff Wilson and 
another officer who had been detained in 
place of George Somers for that evening. 
Annear turned before gathering up the in- 
animate form of his victim to calculate 
his chances. He saw that it would delay 
him too long to escape. He sprang into 
the hack, and the driver gave his horses a 
keen lash; the fire flew from the bowlders 
as their iron-shod hoofs rasped over them, 
and away went horses and vehicle at a fu- 
rious gallop. The policemen cried halt, 
but their cries were unheeded. Jeff Wil- 
son drew his revolver from his pocket, 
cocking it as he brought it around, and 
fired at the flying coach. He missed his 
marky or at least there was no evidence 
that he had harmed anything or anybody^ 
The shot acted like magib; people came 
running from all directions, and in two 
minutes there were at least a hundred 
there all eager to ascertain the cause of 
the row. There were a dozen stories 
afloat in the surging crowd in less time 
than it takes to tell it. Some had it that 
a woman had fallen from a fourth-story 
window; another that she had shot at a 
man and missing him had killed a woman. 
The stories varied greatly as to detail, 
but all agreed that the woman was dead; 
that is the woman lying inanimate on the 
pavement. The private watchman haa 
got upon his feet, and, although stunned 
and bewildered, was the first to tear the 
blanket from the poor girl’s face. 

“Who is it? asked Wilson. 

“Miss Gibbons. Carry her home at once 
and I will explain afterwards.” 

The two policemen gathered up the girl 
in their arms as they would a child, and 
bore her home, followed by a large crowd, 
who came clattering at their heels. They 
carried the limp form of the girl up to her 
room, and laid her on a bed. and then 
drove the crowd away. Mrs. Gibbons was 
greatly alarmed and almost powerless to 
lend assistance, but by great effort of the 


28 


NO MONEY; 


miDd, went to work to ascertain the cause 
of her daughter’s death, for she, with the 
others, supposed she had passed from 
earth. The private watchman had run to 
the office of the nearest physician ; bu that 
worthy disciple of Esculapius, on learning 
who it was, refused to go, saying he did 
not wish to attend cases for the ward doc- 
tor. The watchman then went for the 
ward physician, but he had gono to Elijah 
Moorhead’s reception. To Moorhead’s the 
watchman betook himself with all haste, 
and with the result announced at the close 
of the last chapter. The ward physician, 
once that he had turned his back on the 
festive board of his host, made all haste to 
the house of Mrs. Gibbons. Without cere- 
mony he approached the bedside of his 
patient, and took her hand in his, and 
with his fingers gently touched her veins. 

Mrs. Gibbons watched her countenance 

% 

with tear-ful eyes, to gather hope or receive 
the awful announcement she feared. 

Dr. Peddigoss knew how to keep his 
thoughts to himself, so that the poor wo- 
man gained nothing by scanning his face. 
“Bring me a bucket of water immediately,” 
said the Doctor, turning to Mrs. Gibbons. 
She complied. He took water and sponged 
Stella’s face and hands. “She should 
have had medical attention sooner, he mut- 
tered He went out directly, and returned 
with ice, which he applied. He had ihe 
satisfaction of hearing the girl breathe 
very faintly, and with breath came hope. 
Doctor Peddigoss adminstered a little 
brandy. This seemed to give Stella 
strength, and presently she opened her. 
eyes, and' asked feebly, “Where am I?’’ 

“At home, dear, now be quiet and don’t 
talk,’’ said the doctor soothingly. He sat 
down by the bedside to watch her symptoms 
and administer restoratives. Mrs. Gibbons 
stood at the foot of the bed, watching her 
child, and longing to do something for her, 
yet not knowing how to lend any assistance. 
The doctor saw her manifest anxiety, and 
read her thoughts. 

“She will live,” he whispered. 

Mrs. Gibbons gave a sigh of relief, “God 
be praised I” she said in return, and then 


again they relapsed into silence. Presently 
the girl’s breath denoted that she had 
fallen asleep. The doctor took a potion 
from a paper and emptied it into a glass 
of water. “If she wakes during the night, 
give her a teaspoonful until she goes to 
sleep again.” He arose to go. “I will be 
back again at seven o’clock in the morning, 
if there should be any unfavorable sym- 
toms send for me as soon as possible. I 
will ask the policemen to pass here every 
hour and rap gently on the curb, and if 
you need my services direct them to call 
me.” 

Mrs. Gibbons followed him to the door. 
“Oh, please, sir, tell me what is the matter 
with my child?” 

Doctor Peddigoss stared. 

“Do you not know ?” 

“No, sir.” 

“How came she home in bed.** 

“The policemen brought her in the con- 
dition you found her on your arrival.*’ 

“Here is a mystery I must unravel.” 

“But you have not told me what ails my 
child.” 

•'She labors under great nervous prostra- 
tion — she has been smothered.” 

It was with difficulty that Mrs. Gibbons 
could repress a scream. 

“There, be calm, perhaps we shall be 
able to learn more about this affair to- 
morrow. Good night;” and he hurried 
away. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

In order that the reader may keep up 
with the drift of our story, it is necessary 
that we should again return to the banquet 
at Elijah Moorhead’s that we so uncere- 
moniously quitted but a little while ago. 

The announcement of St Ta Gibbons’s 
sickness troubled policeman George Som- 
ers. He knew the ward in every purlieu 
— its good spots and its bad spots. He 
feared there was something wrong. He knew 
Stella Gibbns and her mother well — knew 
them as honest people — and his great 
heart longed to do something to aid them* 
He cared nothing for the banquet or the 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


29 


guests there assembled. She who had 
given zest to the whole performance had 
long since retired, and the remaining 
guests were having only a few speeches 
thiit smacked more of maudlin brains than 
of reasonable discussion. He therefore 
began to puzzle his mind for a means of 
escape without seeming rude. He felt that 
an excuse would not be accepted, and yet 
he had discharged all the duty required of 
him. Finally he made up his mind to 
quietly withdraw without saying a word to 
his host. He knew it was rnde, impolite 
in the highest degree ; but he would charge 
it to sickness ; Conscience whispered, 
Write a note and send it next day.” 

Quietly he withdrew to the hall, and find- 
his hat, softly opened the door and walked 
down the steps. The cool air of the street 
felt delicious to his fevered face. Turning 
as if to see whether he was noticed, his 
eye caught a light in an upper room, and 
there at her window sat Miss Lucy Moor- 
head, her head resting upon her hand. A 
sadness seemed to have overspread her 
beautiful countenance as she gazed into 
vacancy . 

“Somers looked but a moment — a single 
glance — and hurriedly walked away. How 
much — ah 1 how much — would he have 
given to know the thoughts of that sweet 
girl at this moment 1 He could not, he 
dared not, believe she was thinking of him. 
Perhaps she had been writing a letter to 
some loved one far away, and had fallen 
into this meditative mood as girls often do. 
George Somers was not an exception to 
the average of ardent lovers, who imagine 
young ladies think of every one else but 
themselves. Vain delusion! One sex is 
just as thoughtful as the other, of the 
loved and absent. Love is no respecter 
of persons. He plies his art continually 
among the young. But if the fair god of 
love could be consulted he would doubtless 
open his mouth and whisper — Woman 
knows by instinct when she is loved, but 
man must be told.” With a breast brim- 
full of contending emotions, George Som- 
ers reached Ward 5. His first duty was 
to find his partner, Jeff Wilson. Coming 


up with that grizzly old patrolman, he ex- 
claimed, “Well, Wilson, what’s on the wing 
to-night ?” 

“Enough, to be sure. A scoundrel, or 
rather a pair of them, trred to force a girl 
into a hack and carry her off as a hawk 
would a chicken 1” He then proceeded 
to tell in his own rough way what the 
reader already knows. 

“And you think you neither killed or 
crippled the brute?’’ asked Somers. 

“No, I was too nervous from running — 
my aim was unsteady.” 

“What a pity. But let me once lay my 
clutches on the rascal” — and Somers 
ground his teeth. “Did you say,” he con- 
tinued. “that you had suspicions as to who 
this precious cut-throat was.” 

“Yes, but I couldn’t put up my hand to 
it.” 

“What do you think ?” 

*’I believe Paul Annear.” 

“That fellow had better keep off this beat; 
he has given us trouble enough already. 
Human nature won’t bear much more ; at 
least mine won’t.” 

“That’s it — them as can’t be reached 
with law can be reached with bullets.’’ 

“I don’t mean that I would kill any man 
wantonly or without just cause ; but he has 
several times come near taking my life 
and I think there ought to be some limit 
to human endurance. But I must go up 
and see how this poor girl is before I go 
home. 

“Why do you take so much interest in 
these Gibbons’s ? 

George whispered something in his part- 
ner’s ear as if he feared the very walls 
would hear. 

“Oh, I see it all now. What an old 
fool I’ve been anyhow. God bless you, 
George. Now go up and see how they are 
getting on, and I will be around in an 
hour or two.” George went and tapped 
lightly on Mrs. Gibbons’s door. A faint 
voice inside inquired who was there. 
George gave his name, and stated that he 
did not wish admittance, but only called 
to inquire after Miss Gibbons and to know 
if she needed anything. Mrs. Gibbons had 


30 


NO MONEY; 


not. retired, so she opened the door directly, 
and told George that her daughter was 
resting as quietly , as could be expected. 
The policeman bid her good-night and 
hurried home. 

The following morning a daily journal 
with the usual accuracy which character- 
izes the midnight researches of sleepy re- 
porters made the following announcement. 

A MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR. 

People living in the vicinity of Columbia 
and Broadway were startled last evening 
by hearing a shot fired and seeing a hack 
driven furiously down the street. 

A large crowd soon gathered to ascer- 
tain the cause of the firing. A female was 
found on the pavement, having fainted 
doubtless from fright. 

The policeman seemed to know her, and 
at once took her home. It is surmised 
that she was in the act of leaving home — 
going doubtless to marry some interdicted 
lover. Owing to the lateness of the hour 
our reporter was unable to get the names 
of the parties to this love affair ; but it 
seems altogether a little mysterious. 

Oh 1 reliable family journal 1 your mys- 
tery is as mysterious as the hash of our 
boarding house. That innocent reporter 
should have gone and clothed himself in 
lamb-skins. 

Stella awoke on the following morning, 
weak but much better. She arose and 
made her toilet. In the afternoon she was 
sitting looking out at the window. Her 
mother spoke to her in a soft tone ; 

“My darling, if you feel strong enough, 
do tell me about the trouble last night. 

I have heard something of it from the 
pAiceman, but then I am burning to hear 
your own story.’* 

Stella shuddered. 

“I almost hesitate to talk about it. 
Well, as I was coming up Columbia street 
a man caught hold of me — first throwing 
a blanket over my head. He tried to force 
me into a hack, but I struggled and fought 
the best I could. I felt that I was being 
smothered. My strength began to fail, 
and — oh ! horror. I found myself power- 
less in the arms of the villian. I only had 
time to say, “God help me,” and then be- 
came unconscious. God must have helped 
me, or I should not be here now,” 


“Did you know this villain T’* asked Mrs. 
Gibbons, manifesting much agitation. 

“I do.” 

“Who?” 

“Perhaps, dear mother, it would be 
better you should never know.” 

“Has it come to this, that my daughter 
has secrets that she withholds from her 
mother?” Stella buried her face in her 
hands and sobbed. 

Tears always softened Mrs. Gibbons. 
“I did not speak harshly, my daughter, 
nor wish to wound your feelings ; but 
surely a daughter ought to have no secrets 
hidden from a mother’s eye.” 

Stella arose and put her arms around 
her mather’s neck. 

“Forgive me, mother. You know I 
love you an Willie as I love none else on 
earth. I only hesitated to tell you, lest you 
should do something rash.” 

“We are too dependent to do anything 
rashly ; but I hope that I have not de- 
scended so low as to sacrific my daughter's 
honor.” 

‘Tf I had to beg from door to door, I 
could not and would not do that.” 

“Be calm, dear mother; no harm has 
been done. Promise me, then, that if I 
tell you the name of the man who so 
shamefully assaulted me that you will do 
nothing; say nothing about it, but let the 
matter drop.” 

“That is a rash promise to wring from a 
parent, but if you will reveal the name on 
no conditions, then I must consent to your 
terms.” 

“You would know his name — ^it is Paul 
Annear.” 

The announcement staggered the poor 
woman. The tears filled her eyes. 

“Can it be possible that a man with such 
brilliant prospects — with such an inherit- 
ance as will soon fall into his hands, could 
stoop to play the mean and contemptible 
part of assaulting a poor working-girl.” 

“It is but too true, mother ; but George 
Somers has given me a pistol, and if he 
tries it again I am to shoot him.” 

“You shoot him? f fear you are too 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


31 


timid to defend yourself. But beware how 
you handle firearms ; they are not safe 
companions for any one, especially a girl 
that knows nothing of their use.” 

“Oh yes, George showed me how to use 
it, but I don’t beheve I shall ever need it. 
Paul Annear is aware that I recognized 
him, and I don’t believe he will ever come 
near me again.’’ 

Poor girl, she did not know what a heart- 
less villain she had to deal with — a man 
void of honor besought to bring the pure 
and innocent to his own level. 

Stella and her mother decided that if the 
insult was not repeated, it would be better 
to let the matter drop. 


CHAPTER IX. 

On Plum Street, below Third, once stood 
a large brick house three stories in height. 

The front presented the appearance of 
being the residence of some well-to-do me- 
chanic or tradesman. It has passed from 
one owner to another until, finally dropped 
from the sheriff’s hammer into the posses- 
sion of old man Annear, and was at once 
entered on his rent-roll. 

He was so unfortunate as to get it full of 
tenants of ill-repute, and in a city a bad 
name clings to a house as it does to a per- 
son, until in time no respectable tenant 
will occupy it. A woman by the name of 
McKoy had, at the time we write, the 
house in full possession. This woman^ 
leased the entire house, and then sub-let 
the rooms to such as chose to occupy 
them, thereby reaping a handsome profit. 
She was fully as avaricious as old man 
Annear, but she had no difficulty in rent- 
ing her rooms as she never required those 
wordy little nothings called “references.’’ 

If her tenants only paid their rent in ad- 
vance, and did not so behave themselves 
as to attract the police, she was satisfied. 

Wh^n people had business to transact 
with McKoy, she invited them into what 
she was pleased, to designate as her pri- 
vate office. This was a small room, rather 
tastily furnished, at the rear of the house. 


Mrs. McKoy was one evening sitting in 
her office, when a servant announced that 
there was a gentleman at the door that 
wished to see her on business. 

This ancient damsel at once conceived 
the idea that the visitor must be some one 
desiring to secure a room, and so she men- 
tally went over all the vacant space there 
was in the honse, while the • visitor was 
being shown in. 

The visitor was Paul Annear. He 
smirked, and bowed politely. 

“Have a seat, sir,’’ said the muscular 
landlady, pointing to a chair. 

Paul accepted the proffered seat. 

“My name is Annear,” replied Paul, in 
answer to an inquisitive glance. 

“The son of the landlord?” 

“The same, madam.” 

“I believe my rent is all square is it not?’’ 
asked McKoy. 

“I know nothing about the rent. The 
old man looks after those matters. It is 
my duty to help him spend it.” 

“Ah 1 but in what way can I serve you 
Mr. Annear?’’ and her flabby face warmed 
with a faint smile. 

“I have come to ask your services in a 
private affair in which I propose to en- 
gage. I have heard that you are shrewd 
and trustworthy.” 

“No flattery, sir ; I am long past that 
age. Come down to business at once.” 

“Be patient, then, and I will tell you all 
about it.” Annear lowered his voice and 
looked about him. 

“These walls have no ears, so proceed.’’ 

“First, then, promise me that whether 
we come to an understanding or not, that 
this conversation shall be kept secret.” 

“I never gabble ; so you can go on with 
your story.” 

Well, then, to be brief, it is a love affair 
of mine- The young lady refuses to be my 
wife or even permit my attentions, ana I 
propose to put her where she can not refuse 
to hear me.” 

“You wish to make her a prisoner.” 

“Exactly. 1 would like to rent a room 
in this house, and enlist your services as a- 
guard,” 


32 


NO MONEY; 


•‘Are you aware that you may be laying 
down a plan that may land you and my 
self in the penitentiary/' 

This was like pouring cold water down 
his back, but he was not to be put off in 
that way. 

“I have money, madam, to pay for your 
service ; and as for the law, I don’t care 
for that,” and he snapped his thumb and 
finger contemptuously. 

“You have money, eh ? Well, I always 
had a fondness for money, young man. I 
like to look upon it — like to handle it, and 
know that it is my own.*’ 

Paul thrust his hand into his pocket, 
drew forth three twenty dollar golo pieces, 
and tossed them into Madam McKoy’s 
lap. 

“There is the first installment. When 
the young lady is locked up in this house, 
I will double the amount ; and after that, 
I will pay you twenty dollars a week so 
long as she remains.” 

Me Koy took up the coins and carefully 
inspected them, to see that they were gen- 
uine. Apparently satisfied, she asked An. 
near to go with her and take a look at the 
upper portion of the house, and see whether 
they could find a room suited for the pur- 
pose of a prison. “But hold,” she said, 
“you will want no one in the house but 
me, T suppose ?” 

“You know best what our safety de- 
mands.” 

“This will make an additional expense. 
I can’t have my whole house standing 
idle without being paid rent for it.” 

“Well, then, ITl pay the rent; so lead 
the way.” 

The two went up into the third story, 
and, hunting about, found a room at last 
that Annear said, by careful preparation, 
would answer the purpose of a temporary 
prison. 

“As for the additional work,” said Paul, 
“I will attend to that in person. But how 
soon can you have the house empty?” 

“ Well, let me see, this is the 24th, say on 
the first of the month. I will have them 
all packed off bag and baggage.” 

^‘That will be soon enough j but you 


must hit upon some plan to C^toh this 
bird.” 

“What is’her name?^ 

“Stella Gibbons.” 

“And her address, and occupation ?** 

“She lives wi'h her mother at No. 

East Columbia Street. They sew for a 
livlihood.” Madam McKoy made a mi- 
nute in her memorandum book. “I think 
I can manage it,” she said. “Very well,” 
said Paul. He then took his departure. 


CHAPTER X. 

After Lucy Moorhead sought her own 
room on the evening of her father's recep- 
tion, her feelings were such as she had 
never before experienced. 

Seating herself languidly in an easy 
chair, she permitted -her thoughts to follow 
their own bent. She had often met and 
entertained in her own parlor the youth of 
what was termed fashionable society. She 
had been courted and flattered by these 
sprigs of aristocracy ; but, strange as it 
may appear, it was reserved for plain, un- 
pretending Somers to cause that, young 
heart to palpitate as it had never done 
before Every fortress, we suppose, has, 
some points more vulnerable than others, 
and the same may be said of the human 
heart. The average human mipd — the, 
gateway to the heart — has its foibles, its 
unfortified, and therefore vunerable spots, 
and it is only necessary to touch the former 
to open the door of the latter. We impart 
this bit of information, for the guidance of 
a large and respectable class of young and 
unexperienced men who are trying to storm 
the castle of their ladies’ hearts, but con- 
tinually find themselves fioundering in the 
outer moat with the drawbridge always up. 
They never seem to prosper or get on in 
love matters. Eternally asking the advice 
of friends, and never taking it — playing 
hot and cold — trying to evoke sympathy, 
they usually end by arousing contempt. 

My dear young friend, accept the advice 
of an old stager — hunt around the castle 
I until you find a weak place in the fortifica- 
tion ] then lay siege with might and main 


/ 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


3.1 


and you will succeed. George Somers 
had blundered into Miss Moorhead’s heart 
just as ’ man would blunder into a boas'" 
by falling through a hatchway, while feel- 
ing his way along in the dark. He just 
dropped in by accident. 

Lucy’s weakness was music ; she loved 
it with the devotion of a Beethoven. 

The man that could sing, had a place 
in her heart, or at least brought a strong 
letter of recommendation. She was by no 
means silly enough to allow her partiality 
for music lo obscure her better judgment 
in other important essentials that go to 
make the man ; yet, all other things being 
equal, she would give preference to the 
one that loved this noble art. 

When a young lady finds her thoughts 
frequently recurring to a gentleman that is 
absent, it may be set down that he has 
made an impression “that if taken at the 
tide, leads on.’’ 

Lucy could not look with indifierence on 
a young man of such magnificent form, of 
such intellectual vigor, and such fine con- 
versational powers, as that possessed by 
George Somers, without feeling for him a 
sort of womanly partiality. The difference 
in their social positions had never occurred 
to her, as she was accustomed to treat all 
her father’s guests with proper respect. 

One day Lucy had sent for Stella Gib- 
bons, to give some directions concerning a 
dress that her mother was making for her. 

She had been accustomed to treat Stella 
as an equal in private, though in public 
there was a wide difference between them. 

The two girls sat alone in what was 
Known as the family room. 

' The conversation had flagged for a time, 
and Lucy asked Stella “if she knew a 
policeman by the name of Somers — George 
she thought, was his given name.” 

“Oh, very well,’’ replied Stella, her face 
flushing up at the question. 

Lucy keenly noted the color mount to 
the girl’s cheeks. 

“I believe he does his duty well as an 
officer,” suggested Lucy, affecting great 
indifference, though watching Stella, as 


the Scotch say, out of the tail of her 
eyes. 

“Yes, Miss Lucy ; there is no better of- 
ficer, and he is so kind and such a clever 
gentleman that everybody in our ward but 
the bad people likes Mr. Somers.’’ 

“You are very complimentary,” smiled 
Lucy; “he is doubtless a lover of yours.” 

“Oh, no, indeed,” and the blood gathered 
in Stella’s face until it was scarlet. “I 
like Mr. Somers just as everybody likes 
him. I am sure you would, if you but 
knew him.” 

Lucy blushed slightly, but she was too 
skillful a general to manifest an outward 
sign of weakness at a shot from a lady. 

She saved her blushes for wordy duels 
fought with the male sex. 

“What would you say if I told you that 
I had met with this wonderful package of 
human perfection ?” 

“Where and when ?” asked Stella, so 
quickly that even a novice in human na- 
ture would have discovered a hidden mo- 
tive behind the question. 

“Here in this house, as our guest,’’ re- 
turned Lucy, a little proudly. 

Stella sat half stupified for a moment, 
but she rallied. 

“Indeed ? I am pleased to know that 
Mr. Somers is thought of sufficient impor- 
tance to be a guest at your house. He de- 
serves it.” 

Lucy looked out of the window to con- 
ceal her confusion. She had been fairly 
caught for once. 

Having regained her composure she 
asked Stella some questions concerning 
George’s family, of his mother, and where 
they lived. 

Stella told her all she knew, and that 
was not a great deal, to be sure. 

Lucy appeared to take a marked inter- 
est in the story, which lost nothing as it 
came from the poor girl’s partial tongue. 
Everything that Mr. Somers had said or 
done was just what ought to be said and 
done. In Stella’s estimation, his word 
ought to be law. If he told people they 
had lived long enough, then they ought to 
go at once, and, plunging into the river. 


34 


NO MONEY; 


end their mortal career. It was her opin- 
ion that he had no peer among the male 
population of Cincinnati. 

Lucy, more skilled in human nature, de- 
termined to lest the girl’s fidelity by taking 
the other tack and saying unpleasant 
things of Mr. Somers. 

“I think you will agree with me, Stella, 
in saying ihat Mr. Somers is not very 
handsome.” 

“I think he is very handsome — such 
bright eyes ; and oh, such splendid whis- 
kers !” 

‘‘ But splendid whiskers and bright eyes 
do not go to make the man, after all.” 

Very true, but we were only talking 
about appearances.” 

‘‘ Yes, i forgot that it was good looks 
that we were discussing. Well, admitting 
that Mr. Somers is passable so far as good 
looks are concerned, do you think him a 
fine conversationalist ? ” 

“ Yes, 1 do, Miss Lucy. 3e talks good 
sense, and doesn’t cover a grain of wheat 
with a bushel of chaflf, as the books say.” 

“You don’t pretend to tell me that he 
is an educated man ?” 

“Oh, of course not; but he has educa- 
tion enough for a policeman.” 

“ I dare say ; but a policeman’s is not a 
great calling is it? ” 

“ I think it is. If I were a man I would 
be a policeman.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because — because — well, people would 
be afraid to do wrong when I was about.” 

“Hal hal hal” laughed Lucy. “Why, 
Stella, if Satan were roaming around the 
world and visible to the naked eye, don’t 
you think people would be afraid to do 
wrong when he was in sight, just as they 
are afraid of your policeman?” 

“ Stella did not see the point intended 
to be conveyed nor the force of the argu- 
ment. She mistook Lucy’s words as an 
insinuation against her hero, and as the 
tears came in her eyes, she caught up her 
package to go home. 

Lucy divined it all at a glance, and 
laying her white hand on the girl’s arm, 
said ; “ Stella, forgive me. I was only 


jesting, and will be more careful in future. 

Lucy looked so earnest that Stella’s an« 
ger fled directly, and she replied, softly : 

“It is I that need forgiveness. I am 
too quick tempered in judging of others.” 

Love’s golden chain was welded by a 
kind word and a little concession. 

tt^eople who give away to sudden fits of 
anger are usually not bad-hearted. There 
is a little flurry of the passion, and then 
the goading of remorse drives them to the 
extreme of great penitence. They seek 
to be overgood to atone for being overbad. 

Stella soon took her departure, and Lucy 
retired to her room to think, as she always 
did when her soul was stirred by any ex- 
traordinary emotion. Deprived of a sister 
into whose ear she could pour her petty 
troubles and vexations, she cared not to 
annoy her father and mother with matters 
of this description. Her meditations on 
this occasion ran as follows : “ Was it 

possible that George Somers was in love 
with this poor sewing-girl ? Or had he 
previously been in love and jilted her? 
Could he be mean enough to do that? 
Perhaps he had once blushed in Stella’s 
presence as he now reddened in her own. 
Doubtless he had whispered soft words in 
her ready ear until she worshipped him, 
was his slave, and then left her at sight of 
what he deemed more profitable game. 
Lucy was prone to judge all mankind by 
the moths that habitually fluttered around 
her, talking little nothings, just because 
their brains thought little nothings. Lucy 
gathered her sweet lips together firmly, as 
a new idea seemed to enter her brain. She 
would play the coquette with this hand- 
some policeman, and teach him that jilting 
was a game that could be played by her 
own sex as well as his. The reader will 
understand that she was going on the hy- 
pothesis that he had jilted Stella Gibbons 
— a state of affairs scarcely warramed by 
the surface indications. 

“There, now,’’ she exclaimed, half aloud, 
as the resolution seemed to find permanent 
lodging in her brain. She looked out at 
the window, and her attention beoama 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


36 


uddenly rivitcd -on some object in the 
itreet. It was Stella Gibbons. 

She had gone down the street a little 
?ay, and was now returning. When op- 
)Osite the window, she met George Somers. 
He touched his hat politely to Stella ; but 
ihe was not to be put off with such a 
nighly military salute, but extended her 
dand, which he accepted eourtously. They 
stood conversing for perhaps five minutes 
•—Stella earnestly, George half listlessly. 
Lucy noted each sign and gesture. She 
observed that Stella blushed occasiorvally, 
though George’s face never once changed 
its color. He seems anxious to go, and 
she half detaining him. Lucy suddenly 
thought how rudely she was acting iu 
watching these people in this way, and had 
laid her hand on the curtain to shut out 
the scene, when George incidentally cast 
his eyes upward and saw her. 

He touched his hat politely and Lucy 
smiled — then closed the window. 

“George Somers does not love Stella, 
though he may respect her,” thought Lucy; 
“ but I have already begun my work,” and 
then she went down and played on the 
piano as if to soothe her feelings and re- 
concile her conscience to the resolution 
she had formed of coqueting with a police- 
man. 

Meanwhile Stella walked slowly home- 
ward. She was thinking, thinking. Her 
heart was lead. 

She had made a discovery that filled her 
soul with' bitterness. Her dearest, best 
friend was in love with George Somers, 
and he, poor soul, would be sure to return 
the compliment. 

What right had Lucy, who could get any 
one she chose, fall in love with George 
Somers ? Stella’s eyes filled with tears 
as she hurried along on her way homeward. 
It is true that George Somers never whis- 
pered one word of love to Stella Gibbons, 
but had always treated her kindly — the no- 
bleness of his nature causing him to lean 
toward those who were poor. This poor 
girl, unskilled in the ways of the world, 
had followed the natural instinct of her 
own heart and fallen in love with the po- 


liceman, Hers was the childish offering 
of a pure heart — a love that would have 
endured forever and forever. 

Reaching her own humble abode, she 
endeavored to look cheerful that she might 
not give those she loved cause for sorrow. 

She had never so longed to be rich as 
now. Their room looked so tame in com- 
parison with the splendor of the houses she 
visited. She was like a life convict, doomed 
to view the beautiful, but never enjoy it. 

Why were they so poor while others 
were rich ? She longed to have some one 
into whose ear she could pour her troubles; 
but a foolish sense of delicacy prevented 
her going to that dear mother, whose heart 
is ever open to her own offspring. 

Mrs. Gibbons seemed in more buoyant 
spirits than usual, although almost always 
cheerful. 

“ I have good news she said,? after 
Stella had laid off her hat. 

“Ah, what is it?” asked Stella. 

“ Here is a letter asking me to send you 
for some work. It comes from a new cus- 
tomer, and she writes that she has a good 
deal of sewing to let out. But you can 
read the letter for yourself ; ” and she 
drew the missive from her pocket, and 
handed it to her daughter to read. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Stella took the letter from her mother’s 
hand, and opening it, perused its contents. 
As this note may fill up a gap in our story, 
we give it in full, leaving out the date and 
number of the street. The reason for 
leaving out the number is obvious ; for, 
while we are at liberty to detail incidents 
as they occur, we have no right to damage 
a man’s private property. It is perhaps 
well that houses have no tongues, or they 
would tell strange stories sometimes. But 
to the letter. It ran as follows : 

“ Mrs. Gibbons : — A friend of mine has 
been speaking in high terms of your skill 
as a mantua-maker. Now I wish to have a 
new silk made in the latest style. Will you, 
therefore, oblige me by sending some 
trusty person for the material at, say ten 
(J* clock to-morrow. 

“ i will give the person sent fnll instnw 


36 


NO MONEY; 


tions as to the style I shall waat it made. 
Please send promptly at ten o’clock, as I 
shall dine out at one. 

“ Respectfully. 

“ Anna Boyce. 

“ Elm street.” 

Stella read the letter over a second time, 
and then returned it to her mother. 

“ As I am not to go for the dress until 
to-raoiTow, it will be time enough to think 
of this matter then ; ” and she sat down to 
work at the sewing-machine. The girl 
was not in a humor to sing. A cloud had 
crossed her path in the person of Lucy 
Moorhead. Yes, that paragon of human 
perfection, that ideal of true womanhood, 
stood between her and George Somers. 
How could she hope to win in such a race? 
But she must wait in silence, and let events 
shape themselves so that she could solve 
the problem of her future destiny. Poor 
girl, the ways of the lowly are often beset 
with thorns. 

On the following morning Stella seemed 
to have regained her flagging spirits to 
some extent, or at least had buried her 
troubles in the deep recesses of her own 
bosom. 

Mr. Peckover called to see how they 
were getting along, and took Willie up 
kindly and dandled him on his knee. He 
seldom came now without bringing the 
child some token of his regard. His great 
heart went out to the little orphan, son of 
his dead brother. Willie venerated Mr. 
Peckover; he loved him with the unself 
ishness of childhood, and was always in 
great glee when the old man came on his 
visitations. He told his mother one day, 
very confidentially, that he liked Mr. Peck 
yver better than he did the boys. 

Mr. Peckover stated that he was going 
as far as East Columbia on some business, 
and requested that Willie accompany him 
in his buggy, promising to return him safely 
in a couple of hours. The child ran to his 
mother, and looked pleadingly up in her 
face for consent. 

She hesitated a moment, and then gave 
her consent, on condition that it would not 
be too much trouble. 

This delighted the child, and he re- 


quested his sister to ^'slick him up a little/* 
which she did. Willie had never ridden 
in a buggy. He had occasionally hung on 
to the coupling pole of some farm wagon, 
but his mother had one day espied him at 
this and forbidden it in future. But now 
.he was to be ridden in a buggy. How he 
would look down on the small fry of his 
acquaintance. The few minutes that Mr. 
Peckover remained were magnified, by 
Willie’s impatience, into hours. 

The old gentleman had scarcely begun 
to descend the stairway ere Willie had 
safely ensconced himself in the buggy, and 
wondered why the old gentleman moved 
so slowly. They finally got away and went 
whirling up the street. 

Now that Mrs. Gibbons had greater con- 
fidence in Mr. Peckover, she had no fears 
that the child was being stolen. 

It was half past nine o'clock, and as 
Stella was to meet Madam Boyce at ten, 
she thought it was high time that she was 
on the way. She put on her hat, and went 
out directly, She walked down Second, 
or Columbia, as it was then called, to its 
intersection with Elm street. This latter 
street she pursued northward, keeping her 
eye upon the numbers, in order to find the 
one corresponding with the number nam- 
ed in the note. At last she found it paint- 
ed on a square bit of tin over the door. 
She was about to ring the door bell, when 
her eye caught sight of a small scrap of 
paper pinned to the upper panel of the 
door. It read “To Let.” 

Confused at being thus misled she turn 
ed to go home, when a small ragged boy, 
with the filth of the gutter coating his 
hands, approached and accosted her: 

“Are you Miss Gibbons?” he asked. 

Stella nodded assent. 

“A lady told me to tell you she had 
moved to No. Plum street.’’ 

‘•When did she remove?” 

“Dun no, Miss, but that’s what she toM 
me to tell you.” 

Thanking the boy for information, she 
went over to Plum street, and began again 
to hunt the numbers. At last she stood 
before a large bpiek house, rather forbid 


AN ODD FELLOWS' STORY. 


sr 


ding in its outward appearance. Accustom- 
ed to go whithersoever she had business 
Stella pulled the bell-handle and heard a 
faint jingling in the rear of the building. 
At last, after waiting a few seconds, the 
summons was answered- by a rather muscu- 
lar, middle aged woman, whom the reader 
will doubtless recognize as Jane McKoy, 
although, as we have seen, she signed her 
name Anna Boyce. The reader will also 
see that the naming of one locality in her 
note when another was meant was a* part 
of a well-laid scheme* ,to entrap the girl, 
and at the same time throw off pursuit. 

The woman met Stella with a smile, and 
invited her kindly to enter the house, with 
the grim satisfaction of the spider that fti- 
vited the silty fly to walk Into his parlor. 
Stella’s heart warmed at the sound of kind 
words. She took to people who spoke 
gently. Alas, she was unsophisticated in 
the ways of the world, she did not know 
then, that the deepest-dyed villians masked 
their treacherous batteries behind a smile, 
and the ferocity of a tiger is hidden un- 
der the soft purring of the cat. What 
sign of shrewdness was it to betray a poor 
innocent girl into a prison, all unsuspecb 
ing as she was? You or I might have been 
decoyed to dungeon or death as easily. 

Madam McKoy invited the girl into her 
oflBce with a patronizing air. After both 
were seated, the former said, after consult- 
ing a memorandum; “You are Miss Gib- 
bons.’’ 

“Yes, Madam.” 

“You are the daughter of the dress- 
maker on Columbia street, if I mistake 
not?” 

“1 am.” 

“Your name — given name, I mean.’’ 

“Stella,” 

“A very pretty one, indeed. Well, Miss 
Stella, I hope we shall be very good 
friends.” 

“Thank you, madam. I shall try to de- 
serve your friendship.” 

“ Spoken like a true lady.’’ 

Jingle, jingle, lingle, Hngle, went the 
little door bell. 

A shade of anger flashed across the 


countenance of Madam McKoy, but she was 
too artful a general to show trepidation at 
the first alarm. “Excuse me a moment, 
please,” she said, rising; “the butcher has 
come, I suppose, and if I didn’t go to the 
door, he would stand there and ring all 
day.” Madam McKoy went out and closed 
the door behind her. In a few moments 
she returned. “Only a peddler. What a 
nuisance! But to business. I have sent 
for you, Miss Gibbons, as my note of yes- 
terday explained, to have a new silk dress 
made. You know we ladies must all be up 
to the fashion.’’ Stella nodded assent. 
“You come prepared to take the measure, 
I suppose?” 

“Oh yes, Madam; mother sends me to 
take nearly all the measures.” 

“Very well. We will retire to my bed- 
room, up stairs where there will be no in- 
terference.” As they went up the stairway 
there was an echo to their footsteps, that 
signified emptiness. Stella wondered at 
this, and, seeing no one about, began to ask 
herself why such a large house should be 
so nearly vacant. The Madam, as if an- 
ticipating her thoughts, whether by acci- 
dent or shrewdness we know not, remarked 
“that she intended to rent out her house 
as soon as she could find good paying ten- 
ants to share it with her.” This apparently 
settled the girl’s curiosity. At last they 
stood in front of a door, and Madam Mc- 
Koy took a bunch of keys, and, selecting 
one, inserted it in the key hole, threw back 
the bolt, opened the door, and invited 
Stella to walk in. No sooner had the girl 
entered, than the door was closed with a 
slam by the Madam, who still stood 
in the hall. The next momemt the bolt 
was shot into the catch, and the key quick- 
ly withdrawn. 

Stella, all unsuspicious of foul play, 
stood wondering for a moment, then, as a 
horrible suspicion flashed upon her, she 
stood speechless and trembling with fear, 
for half a minute. She’heard the Madam 
walking away, and this must have aroused 
her, for she spoke very loudly “Mrs. Boyce, 
you have looked me up.’’ She still re- 
membered the name signed to the note* 


38 


NO MONEY; 


The footsteps grew fainter and fainter. 
Aroused to desperation, she screamed 
after the woman. 

“Oh, why have you locked the door? 
Please, oh please let me outl” No re- 
sponse; and the footsteps could no longer 
be heard. Stella turned to look about her. 
The room was rather small and meanly 
furnished. A bed in one corner, and a 
Windsor chair, besides a small stand, was 
all the furniture it contained. There was 
no light from heaven. 

The only window was heavily padded and 
barred. A feeble gas-jet shed a somber 
ray of light, that only added gloom instead 
of dispelling it. She ran to the window, 
and clutched the boards that ran laterally 
across it, and pulled at them until the 
blood burst from her finger-ends. Shp 
could neither loosen nor even shake one, 
so strong was its fastening. She met no 
better success at the door, and at last stood 
panting in the center of the room, like a 
bird that had been suddenly caught in its 
native air and thrust into a cage. She 
tried to think; and after a minute, as some 
terrible truth flashed upon her, she uttered 
one wild, piercing, heart-rending scream, 
born of utter despair, and fell fainting on 
the bed. The callous-hearted wretch who 
had betrayed her sought her office, and 
heaved a sigh that the first act of the 
drama was over But with this degree of 
satisfaction, she was not perfectly easy. 
The law was the skeleton th*at began to in- 
trude itself into her presence. Once in 
St. Louis she had been brought within its 
iron jaws, and only escaped a long im- 
prisonment by a legal technicality. Ever 
since then she had half feared the law . 
Mrs. McKoy took the gold coins out of her 
pocket and poured them into her lap. 
How fresh and new they looked in their 
golden hues. The name of a miser’s 
country never appears to such advantage 
as when encircling the coins in his pos- 
fiesston. K ICoy was a miser. 

CHAPTER XII. 

We trust that the reader will bear this 
important fact in mind, that this is not a 


political story, but there are certain abuses 
that we would seek to reform. The man- 
ner of nominating men for official posi 
tions of honor and trust, is faulty indeed. 
The influencing of voters by the free use 
of money is an abuse of freedom that is 
without excuse. The public press, which 
ought to be the guardian of public mor 
als, the leader of a pure and noble senti- 
ment, often descends to the ditch to throw 
its slipie upon a party opponent. Think 
of this great moral engine being turned 
into a cesspool in which a man’s character 
is thrown and tossed about, as you would 
roll a bundle of pure wool in a dye kettle. 
Imagine the feelings of the man who has 
guarded his character with a jealous care 
all his life, sitting down some morning to 
read what a villainous thing he is anyway. 
He has all the days of his life been trying 
to swindle the public, according to these 
veritable moral engines. The newspapers 
propose to regulate public morals, but who 
is to regulate the newspapers? we ask. 
There are so many of these crying abuses 
that we despair of seeing them remedied^ 
so we suppose they will have to be en - 
d fired. 

Elijah Moorhead having become a can- 
didate for nomination by his party, the 
opposition papers opened on him like a 
pack ofhungry hounds. They impugned 
his motives; they traduced his character, 
and endeavored by every corrupt means 
to turn the working classes against him, 
because he had money, and in their zeal 
they even announced that he expected the 
influence of his Masonic and Odd Fellow 
brethren to nominate and elect him, as if 
these bodies could be used for political 
purposes. Elijah responded next day in a 
brief card that he was neither a Mason or 
an Odd Fellow. But what did it matter? 
In all these bitter partisan warfares, it is 
easier to charge than defend. Your ene- 

my hurls innuendo, and you have no soon- 
er nailed one falsehood than another is 
thrown in your teeth. 

The grand field-day had come, when it 
would be necessary for the party to select 
a standard-bearer to carry them through 


AN ODD FELLOWS' STORY. 


S9 


the municipal campaign. Each candidate 
had his henchmen, and each henchman 
had his little retinue of ward bummers. 
Did you ever read the Legend of Mont- 
rose? You did. Well, there was no pi- 
broch to call these latter .day clans to- 
gether as when the Earl of Monlrosef- was 
gathering his rude Highlanders to descend 
to the valley in which lay his hereditary 
enemies; but the call was none the less 
heeded. Men of the smallest parts are, 
under the exigency of & primary meeting, 
magnified into statesmen. Candidates 
toady to them and they are somebody un- 
til the election is over, and fhen they sink 
back to their old places, out of sight and 
out of mind. The convention of dele- 
gates — a mob, we should rather say, as- 
sembled to give expression to public sen- 
timent — God preserve the sentiment that 
issues from such a mouth-piece! A large 
hall was filled to repletion with a mass of 
human beings drawn from every possible 
avenue of society, drinking, smoking, 
swearing, and without the semblance of 
order. A respectable citizen was called 
to preside. 

He took the rostrum, with a placid 
smile wreathing his mouth. He made a 
few complimentary remarks, this remarka- 
ble citizen did, thanking this highly intel- 
ligent assembly for the honor they had 
done him. Thanks of this kind must be 
taken with the same allowance that we 
make for the highly flattering beginning 
and ending of letters. 

The chairman then began the task of 
bringing order out of chaos. Delegations 
were moved hither and thither by sweat- 
ing, panting sergeants-at-arms. The con- 
fusion increased. Many were standing 
with hats on. The chairman pounded 
with his gavel and gesticulated wildly 
with his arms. “Order, order,’’ at the top 
of his voice, which began to crack under 
the powerful strain, when somebody 
sprang to his feet and nominated Simon 
Snooks, making a few remarks as to what 
S. S. had done for the city, besides paying 
h 8 poll-tax. All that could be heard at 
i be reporters’ stand was an occasional ut- 


terance of the name of Snooks. No one 
knew when the speaker had done, and the 
knowledge of what he said was from eye- 
"'ight. Being favored by an elevated po- 
sition, the chairman watched the spea ker’a 
gestures, and when they ceased he rightly 
concluded that he had ended. 

Then some one sprang up and nomina- 
ted Elijah Moorhead, and repeated the 
same routine of screaming, yelling, howl 
mg and gesticulating until his wind gav»» 
out. The balloting began amid the wild 
est confusion; tobacco smoke rolled up 
from this seething caldron, and gathered 
at the high ceiling, and hung over the 
noisy crowd like a drapery. Men in the 
rear climbed upon chairs .to see those in 
front. In one comer there was a fight be- 
tween two Irishmen, who were separated 
by the police, but not arrested. 

The tellers at last announced the vote: 
Snooks, 176 votes; Moorhead, 175; then a 
loud yell of triumph from Snooks’ friends 
and a corresponding depression on the 
Moorhead side. Somebody got the floor 
and proposed (for the good of the party) 
to make the vote unanimous. A yell of 
assent greeted this proposition. Loud 
calls for Snooks brought that worthy from 
behind the curtains, where he had been 
waiting in anticipation of being called 
upon. The crowd was hushed. Snooks 
was the coming man, and as each had an 
ax to grind, they must listen reverently to 
what he had to say. Each man had men- 
tally resolved to cheer Snooks. The 
chairman gave the crowd the cue, and 
they cheered with a will. Snooks strut- 
ted the rostrum with all the pride of a bull 
perambulating a cow-pasture. He reared 
and roared and swelled and blowed, and 
then he told a snake story that made every 
one laugh — not that the story was very 
funny, but not to laugh under the circum- 
stances would have exhibited a lukewarm 
disposition toward the noble cause. 

Elijah Moorhead had been hidden be- 
hind the curtain, and it was with feelings 
of the deepest mortification that he heard 
his rival called out. He knew the game 
was all over so far as he was coneemedi 


40 


NO MONEY j 


and so he quietly slipped out by the back- 
stairs and left the building. 

When, therefore, the crowd called for 
Elijah to come forward and ratify, he was 
not to be found. Then every one said 
what a narrow escape they had made in 
refusing to nominate him for the Mayor- 
alty. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

We left Stella Gibbons a prisoner and 
well-nigh lifeless in a house on Plum street. 
It seems strange that she could be a pris- 
oner in a private house in Cincinnati 
within a stone-cast of the great center 
where the pulse of trade throbbed and 
beat continuously j but it was in this 
case, and so it may occur again and again. 
There are human vultures swarming in 
every city, ready upon a moment’s notice 
to peunee upon and blight innocence and 
beauty, and turn a young life into the 
road that leads to shame and death. Yet 
these living monsters are not shunned by 
respectable society as they should be. 
The libertine basks in the sunniest smiles 
of Cincinnati’s fairest daughters, instead 
of being driven forth with the brand of 
Cain upon his brow. Young ladies, what 
can you promise yourselves from marrying 
such men? Good husbands 1 Ah I We 
have known some poor girls who took unto 
themselves such husbands. Go out, to 
Spring Grove, and read their epitaphs. 

“ Sacred to the memory of , who died 

” The papers, speaking for the fam- 
ily, said she died of consumption. The 
papers were made to lie, because shame 
and mortification held back the real cause. 
Poor girl 1 she died of a broken heart. 
Heaven, unable longer to hear her cries, 
drew her away from the remorseless vil- 
lain, who had turned her existence into 
a burning hell. Who would think of 
br-anding Mr. Potherick or Mr. Botherick 
of murdering their wives? These men 
are members of aur Board of Trade, and 
when importfj it committees are to be or- 
ganized they are sure to be placed on 
them. 


After Stella revived somewhat, she 
again went on a tour of inspection about 
the room; but she could find no means of 
escape. Her prison was impregnable from 
within, and stood some two lots distant 
from amy others, either north or south of 
it, and as her prison was located in the 
rear of the house, she had little hope of 
making her cries heard on the street. And 
then how easy it would be to explain her 
calls for help by the simple assertion that 
she was some insane person or some old 
i lodger suffering with delirium tremens. 
She paused in her weary search for an 
avenue of escape. “ Why had she been 
oast into this gloomy dungeon ? Why 
tear one who was of so little consequence 
to the world at large from those she loved 
so dearly, and bury her in this horrible 
place ? What crime had she committed ? 
Whom had she wronged in word or deed 
that she must be robbed of her liberty ? 
She put her hand to her throbbing, aching 
brow, and tried to reason. Her life, for 
the past year, was reviewed, act by act, 
as the penitent tells off his beads. She 
stopped suddenly in the rehearsal of her 
life-history. The blood fled her cheeks, 
and, with dazed sight, she became so rigid 
that she might have been mistaken for a 
block of marble, but for the tremor of 
horror that shook her frame. She had di- 
vined the cause at last. It was the work 
of that fiend, Paul Annear. Oh, silly, 
silly fly 1 how had she fluttered into the 
web he had woven to trap her unwary feet? 
Necessity has wrought heroes in all ages 
of the world. Self-defense has strength- 
ened the heart and arm of poor, timorous 
mortals, and made them fighting heroes. 
The flying buck, when brought to bay, is a 
dangerous antagonist. The most arrant 
coward has often defended himself with 
desperation when forced into a corner with 
all avenues of escape closed against him. 
Stella was a girl of spirit, and determined 
to defend her honor with her life, if it 
came to that. She paced the room back 
and forth, trying tO settle upon some plau 
of defense. The law and her friends could 
do nothing for her, for how should they 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


4 ] 


know where she was ? She felt sure that 
those who had gone to such lengths to se- 
cure her, had left no trail by which she 
could be traced into the recesses of this 
old house? While thus racking her brain 
for some means of escape, she involunta- 
rily put her hand in her pocket and drew 
out the little revolver. She gave a scream 
of joy at the sight of the weapon. She 
quickly brought it to her lips and kissed 
it with the reverence of a saint kissing the 
crucifix. She spoke aloud: 

“ Oh, you little darling I Why did I not 
see you before ? This is the gift of George 
Somers. Why, he is a prophet. * Take 
it/ he said, ‘ and if that villain troubles 
you again, use it.’ These were his very 
words ; ” and she raised and lowered the 
hammer softly in order not to explode the 
cartridge. But could she take a human 
life ? That was a terrible thing to do j but 
then she would sooner kill than lose her 
honor. Stella knelt down in the somber- 
hued room, and poured out her soul to 
God to give her strength and courage to 
face her enemies who sought to accom- 
plish her ruin. She arose, feeling stronger. 
Her path of duty seemed clearer now. She 
would wait until her enemy developed his 
suspected purpose, and then she had but 
one resource left. While thus meditating 
she heard some one approaching, and she 
quickly thrust the pistol into her pocket 
out of sight. A key was thrust into the 
lock, and the rusty bolt squeaked as it 
backed away from the catch | the door 
swung slowly open, and Paul Annear 
walked into the room. He bowed and 
smiled blandly. Stella did not return his 
salutation j she was ice. 

I find,” he said, by way of opening a 
conversation, “that you have changed 
your residence j so I thought I might ven- 
ture to pay you a visit.” 

Stella made no reply. 

“ Can I serve you in any way T * 

** First tell me, sir, why I am cast into 
liis prison ? Whom have I offended ?” 

<<Me.” 

«How7** 


“ By refusing to allow me to keep youi 
eompany. ’’ 

“ And is not a girl permitted to choose 
her own company, pray? ” 

“ Not with me j I know better than 
some young ladies I could name.” 

“ Who appointed you my guardian?” 

“ Self-appointed, Miss. When you re- 
fused to see me I made up my mind to 
place you in a position where refusal would 
be impossible. 1 made one attempt to 
capture you j it was a miserable failure, I 
am sorry to say. This time I have been 
more successful. Why? Because I set a 
woman to catch a woman. Her wits were 
sharper than mine.” 

The villain stood before the young girl 
with all the impudence and cold calcula- 
tion of a cobra about to devour a hare. 

Stella changed her tone somewhat. 

“Oh, si^’’ she said, “ if you have any 
respect for innocence, pray release me 
from this horrid place.’’ 

As Stella changed from self possessed 
dignity to an air of entreaty, Paul Annear 
as suddenly changed from hateur to swag- 
ger. 

“ Let you out, Miss ? It would be a 
nice idea to let you out after all the money 
it has cost me to get you caged. Hal ha I 
hal that would be a good jokel” 

“You are an unfeeling wretch j a man 
devoid of all honor. Well was it for me 
that I refused your company. As well 
might I have consorted with a scorpion. 
My honor and fair name would have been 
as safe in the hands of the meanest wretch 
that lies in the penitentiary.” 

“ Well, Miss Gibbons, that is deuced 
eloquent — quite tragic. You should go 
on the stage, by all means.” 

“If you do not release me from this 
place I may begin playing tragedy in ear- 
nest.” 

“Do. I ring up the curtain. Now be- 
gin.” 

“ Will you stand aside and permit me to 
pass out ? ” 

“No.’; 

“ I ask again, will you permit me to 
leave this place t ” 


42 


NO MONEY; 


Very tragic, my pretty onei Pray, go 

on.” 

Stella drew her revolver, cocked it, and 
advanciug within three feet of Paul, she 
almost thrust its muzzle into his face. 
This was an act in the tragedy he had not 
looked for. 

He turned pale, and the poor girl’s eyes 
emitted sparks of fire. 

“Now, sir, turn and lead the way to the 
street. The moment you speak or look 
back, I will send this bullet into your brain. 

Paul hesitated. 

“I will not ask you again.” 

Paul saw she was in deadly earnest, and 
fearing she would kill him in her passion, 
he turned tremblingly away. 

Stella followed him step by step, as he 
slowly marched down siairs. He was 
burning with rage, yet his fears of death 
caused him to keep right on. He sought 
to lead her into the office of his accom- 
plice, but she was too shrewd for him, and 
directed him another way. At last they 
reached the front door. Stella ordered 
him to open it wide, which he did, and then 
she marched him into the street. 

As ill luck would have it, just as they 
reached the pavement, two policemen hap- 
pened to be passing the house. Seeing a 
man issuing from a house closely followed 
by a woman, with a pistol at his head, 
they at once suspected a row. The first 
act of the policemen, therefore, was to 
seize and disarm the girl. “Policemen, 
do your duty and take her to the station- 
house,” said Paul Annear, now finding his 
tongue after the first act was over. These 
policemen think so little of themselves, and 
are so accustomed to be told what to do, 
that one of them seized her arm on either 
side and bore her away. 

Stella begged to be released, vowing her 
innocence at every step as they dragged 
her along, until one of the officers with the 
brutality that usually characterizes the 
force, ordered her to “shut up and come 
along.” 

People stopped as they passed, to see 
who this woman was that the beaks had in 
there clutches, A swarm of newsboys 


and other gammon, like a pack of young 
wolves, followed along or flanked the pro- 
cession. At each street-crossing, more 
idle, curious children fell into the crowd, 
until by the time they reached Ninth street 
the procession was more than a square 
long. Whooping, whistling and yelling 
they came, and’ all because one poor girl 
was being taken to prison. 

The policemen took Stella down a flight 
of a half dozen stone steps and ushered 
her into the office of the prison, where a 
lieutenant presided behind the desk. 

The lieutenant looked sharply at the 
prisoner and asked; 

“What’s your name. Miss or Madam, as 
the case may be?*’ 

“Stella.” 

He wrote it. 

“What charge, Billingsly?** 

“Carrying concealed weapons and threat- 
ening.’’ 

“That will do; lock her up.** 

The officer led Stella away, and two 
minutes thereafter Paul Annear came up 
smiling blandly to the lieutenant whom 
he knew. 

“Have you got that little virago locked 
up, lieutenant? 

“The one that I just sent back?” 

“Yes.” 

“Safe enough.” 

“She was about to blow my top-knot 
off awhile ago.” 

“Oh, hoi my lark it was your girl, was 
it?” and the lieutenant winked knowingly. 

Paul laughed, but said nothing. 

“A duced good-looking little gal, my 
boy. Where did you pick her up?” 

“Oh, down town.” indifferently; “but I 
see she has her name registered Stella. 
That is not her name, it is Annette Lee.” 

“Is that so — the hussey (begging your 
pardon sir;) 1 must scratch out Stella, and 
put in the other name.” 

He wrote Annette Lee. 

The two sat down and talked over the 
event, Paul taking great pains to color it 
so that Stella would appear a very naughty 
girl. He sought to leave the impression 
on the mind of the lieutenant that he was 


43 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


not only a badly used individual, but said 
in conclusion, it is one of those lover’s 
quarrels, that, I am sorry to say, will some- 
times get before the public or into the 
courts.’* 

Then the lieutenant asked him ‘^f h* 
was going to allow the big J udge to send 
the girl out to the city work-house to cool 
down for awhile.” 

“Not if she comes down,” replied the 
villain, with great sang froid. 

“Better make up with her, my boyj 
that’s the best way,” suggested the lieuten- 
ant. 

“I’ll study on it, over to-night — can’t say 
what conclusion I may come to by ten 
o’clock to-morrow.’’ 

“Well, come round in time for court in 
the morning; the big Judge may want your 
testimony in the case, as she is new on 
him. These old vags don’t need any 
testimony. He knows every one of them; 
but in these new cases he must hear some 
evidence as a matter of form, you know.” 

“All right. I’ll be on hand;” and Paul 
took his departure; burning with rage and 
vowing vengeance on this poor defenceless 
girl, whose only crime was in having 
sufficient spirft to thwart his wicked scheme. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Reader did you ever visit a station- 
house — one of those prisons where law- 
breakers are temporarily incarcerated dur- 
ing the interval of the sessions of the 
Police Court. 

Before Cincinnati had taken into her 
corporate limits all the villages that joined 
her, there were three or four of these sta- 
tions more noted than the rest. There 
was Ninth Street, in the same building in 
which the Police Court is yet held; Ham- 
mond Street Station, on a little dingy 
alley that runs from Third to Fourth be- 
tween Main and Sycamore; Third Street 
Station, away down in the West End, and 
Bremen Street Station, north of the canal. 
These are the old timers. Into these sta- 
tions are nightly gathered the depraved 
and vicious who are always restive and 


difficult to control. Here, too, are gather- 
ed the trembling sot and wife-wHipper, 
the petty thief and the filthy vagabond — 
they are all here. The station at night is 
often a bedlam, more hideous than a mad- 
house, more indecent than a bawdy- 
house. Caged like wild animals, they 
vent their impotent rage against iron bars 
and barren walls, and heap foul-mouthed 
oaths upon imaginary foes. 

The feelings of our poor innocent hero- 
ine can better be imagined than described, 
being, without cause, cast into this foul 
place. Trembling with fear and mortified 
beyond measure she was thrust into one 
of the cells with as little ceremony as 
though she had committed a murder. 

Her senses were benumbed by the 
scenes through which she had been hastily 
dragged, and not until the door was lock- 
ed did she realize that she was twice a 
prisoner in the same day. She had, by a 
bold stroke, fought her way ont of one 
prison to be instantly swallowed up in 
another. But there was a vast difference, 
she thought, between being the prisoner of 
Paul Aniiear and the prisoner of the city. 
She crouched into a comer of her cell, 
weeping as if her poor heart would 
break at the terrible injustice that had 
been done her. In this awful moment 
reason scarce exerted its sway, so ^jjeat 
was the agony she felt at the degradation 
of the position in which she was so un- 
happily placed. 

In the cell adjoining to that occupied 
by Stella Gibbons was a poer vagrant wo- 
man crazed with liquor. Sometimes this 
woman would talk of home and fwends, 
and purr as if trying to soothe a child; 
then she would change as if revikag some 
heartless lover who had cast her off for 
one more beautiful. “Ah, John,” she 
said, “there was a time when you thought 
me handsome, at least sr you said, and 
then deserted me because you saw a feirer 
face; ha! hal hal you didn’t make nwich by 
the change, ye villain. Ye stepped be- 
tween me andfhose I loved, but what did 
you make by it? Poor wretch, your soul 
may be in eternal torments as mine is, so 


44 


NO MONEY; 


I’ll pray for ye;” and the unfortunate 
cj^ature offered up a petition half curses 
and half supplication. Her sobs co^ be 
heard, and then she would rise and point 
to some imaginary demon slowly issuing 
from the wall of her cell. “There you are 
again, curse you; you’ve been followiiig 
me around for a long time, and I suppose 

you will follow me to the very ga^s of 

but you shan’t have me, accupeed fi®ndl 
Oh, no, not yet, not yet; there, he is gone 
again, an old woman’s tougiiia is too much 
for him. Oh, God; if I only had but one 
drop of liquor, it would stop this gnawing 
at my soul. Better that I were dead than 
endure all this.” 

Stella grew faint at hearing such dread- 
ful ravings, and she felt that if long com- 
pelled to hear such sounds her reason 
would desert her. 

Gn the side opposite the drunhen wo- 
man was another female vag*ant, who was 
only slightly tipsy. Her feelings took a 
jolly tjUEfl. She sat on the flo<|r of her 
ceil, with her arms clasped tightly aAroend 
her l^Biees, rocking her body back amd 
forth, singing an improvised ditty, always 
ending with: 

“We’H all get drunk and go oat to the 
work’ us. 

Out to the work’ us, 

Out to the work’us.’’ 

Then she would order the noisy woman 
to “shut up, as she spoiled her singing so 
she could scarcely keep the tune.*’ 

Amid all this bedlam of confusion, mul- 
tiplied and intensified by the narsow limit#' 
which forbade the sounds losing them- 
selves in the distance, Stella’s thoughts 
sought that dear, humble home she had 
never loved so well before as now when she 
could not approach it. She was once dis- 
posed to fret at its very plainness; hut 
what would she not give now to be under 
its protecting roof? 

What were the sourows of that dear, 
hind mother, or that fair-haired bsother, 
at her unexplained absence? She knew 
their heartis must be breaking, as was hers, 
at the parting. Where was Geocge Som- 
ers, thal good friend in time of need; 


would he, could he, do anything to rescue 
her from her peril? Where was that good 
old Odd Fellow, Mr. Peckover, who had 
taken such a deep and paternal interest in 
fheir welfare? Would he desert them at 
the first gust of real distress? Oh, no, she 
cofuld not believe it. He was too firm, too 
noble to turn his back in the real hour of 
need. Thus she soliloquized and occasion- 
ally wept to give oelief to her heart, as 
water runs over the top of an ovoiiull 
vessel. Her head ached and she grew 
dioflf at times. 

Lato in the night the half-crazed woman 
sank iiito a drunken sleep, emitting a snore 
little less obnoxious to Stella’s sensitive 
nerves than her idiotic gabble. The at- 
mosphere was replete with the fumes of 
bad whisky. Half a score of noxious 
vapors struggled for the ascendency, ren- 
dering the place undescribably foul. The 
rooms might have been ventilated as to 
allow these odious smells to escape and 
their places be supplied by pure wholesome 
air; but who cares for the comfort of 
prisoner*? There safe keeping is the 
main point. As Stella lay panting in her 
cell, the chime in the cathedral tower 
broke foiilh into a half raewpy, half solemn 
tune — playing each note on the silvery 
bells — then a pause and silence for a little 
while. Thin the ponderous hammer gave 
twelve mighty strokes to warn the city 
that a noth wr. day wkh all its joys and sor- 
rows had joined the innumeFable fears of 
the past. The smaller bells took up the 
refiwida and struck twelve o’clock. 

A cock in the neighboring court, that 
had been spared the pot by reason of his 
old age and poverty of flesh, unable to for- 
get his early habits, flapped his wings and 
orowed lustily. He listened attentively, 
but there came no response from any vain 
rival, and so he relapsed into silence and 
sleep, like the banished Turk, to dream of 
the harem over which he had once presided 
with such pomp and power. 

One of the keepers of the prison now 
made his rounds to see that all was right; 
not that he feared that any one had es- 
caped, but people nowadays had got such 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


45 


a mania for committing suicide, that it was 
well enough to be on the lookout. Ap- 
parently satisfied with a hasty glance 
through the grating of each cell, he re- 
tired to the front office, doubtless glad to 
leave the noxious odors of the place be- 
hind. Stella could not sleep, but hoping 
to rest her weary limbs and aching head, 
she lay down on the miserable substitute 
for a bed with which her cell was supplied. 
She did not lie long, when, some horrible 
idea seeming to force itself upon her, she 
caught up the filthy covering and dragged 
it to the bars that she might get a better 
light. It was literally alive with vermin. 
She could see the insects as they moved 
on the quilt. 

With a groan she cast the miserable rag 
from her in disgust. She again crouched 
down near the door, and cried piteously. 

In her happier days she had often gone 
with her little brother to the Bethel. She 
loved to go there. Her superior intelli- 
gence had won the esteem of the Superin- 
tendent, and she became a teacher. 

Often had some little member of her 
class come to her with her little petty troub- 
les, and as often had she tried to soothe 
her and direct her attention to the Savior 
who said ‘‘Come all ye that are heavy laden, 
and I will give you rest.’’ Now she had 
need of that consolation. 

Stella dropped upon her knees, and pour- 
ed out her soul in earnest prayer that must 
have ascended to Heaven as sweet incense 
from a wicked world. For a long time 
she whispered her sorrows into an ear 
that is never closed to his children in dis- 
tress. 

Stella felt relieved now, and, with a 
great gulp, she choked down her sobs as 
she heard a light foot-step approaching 
along the corridor. 

It was no one but a little beardless re- 
porter for the daily press. Three of his 
fellows had been to the front office that 
evening and copied the names of the pris- 
oners, and the charges set opposite, and 
such little incidents as the lieutenant 
could give. 

But this little fellow had been twitted by 


his contemporaries with being lazy. His 
vanity was mortified. He would penetrate 
the bowels of the prison, spite the noxious 
vapors, and find a peg on which to hang a 
sensation. Aye, he would comb the dun- 
geon for items. 

This reporter was not a dignified youth; 
it is not expected that young reporters 
should be. The dignity of the press is sup- 
posed to repose under the managerial tile. 

There is a popular delusion abroad that 
the chief editor of a paper works for glory, 
and the reporter for bread. This child “to 
fortune and to fame unknown,” seeing 
Stella awake, drew out his note book. 
Your live reporter always draws his note- 
book when he scents an item just as an 
Indian draws his tomahawk at sight of a 
pale-face. 

The rapacity or these literary vultures 
and their love of gossip is only equaled 
by the love of an Indiana turnpike com- 
pany for the copper coin of the realm. 

Reporter — “Good evening. Miss — not 
asleep yet?” 

The girl raised her reddened eyes. 

Stella — “No, sir; God forbid I should 
sleep in such a horrible place.” 

Reporter — “Nothing like getting used to 
it; but I am a reporter of the Daily Greas- 
er, and am looking round for items, etc.” 

Stella— “Ah.” 

Reporter — “Yes, Miss, but what is your 
name if you please?” 

Stella — “My name — well no matter I 
wish I had none, sir.’’ and Stella’s tears 
flowed afresh. 

Reporter — I wouldn’t take on like that. 
The Big Judge may let you go in the 
morning, if he’s in a good humor; so try 
and get a good sleep, and you’ll feel better 
for it;” and the reporter turned away with 
an air of disappointed hope. He had ex- 
pected to catch a whale, and had only 
caught a minnow. As soon as he reached 
the front office he wrote the following for 
his paper. 

“Annette Lee was arrested last evening 
by officers Biilingly and Logan, on the 
charge of carrying concealed weapons and 
threatening. She is reported by those 


46 


NO MONEY; 


who know her as being a perfect little vix- 
en, and the oflBcers had some difficulty in 
disarming her and bringing her in. Our 
reporter visited the station last evening, 
and found her quite penitent, even shed- 
ding tears. The case will come up before 
the Police Court this morning, when the 
Judge will probably have something to 
say on the subject/’ 

We leave it to the reader’s own judgment 
to say how much Stella Gibbons deserved 
this reliable notice. 

If people fall among thieves and get into 
prison, put your heel on their necks. 


CHAPTER XV. 

The writer of a tale may be likened un- 
to a hound that is dashing on in pursuit 
of game. The characters of the story are 
the game which the writer pursues. He 
tracks them from place to place; he notes 
their actions. If blood is spilled, he is 
there to measure it, if love is on the wing, 
he listens with acute ear to the cooing pair. 
He runs hither and thither among the 
characters that none may escape him. 
Sometimes he loses a trail because their 
destiny divides them, and then he goes back 
to the point where the paths diverge and 
pursues them one at a time, and in order to 
make greater speed he is sometimes, under 
extreme emergencies, compelled to cut 
cross lots, and so ambles on, now running 
now walking — it is a race of life and death. 
The reader is the hunter, booted and 
spurred. He comes quietly on in the wake 
of the unerring leader. He can afford 
to be more liesurely and dignified than he 
who runs in front. When the trail is lost, 
he can wait until it is found, and then 
gallop on. 

Lest some of the characters of this story 
be lost, we must go back on the trail a 
little; or if you are weary, then sit down 
and rest, while we bring them up to the 
point we have now reached. We promise 
you, on the honor of a scribbler, that we 
shall not be long about it either. 

We are quite sanguine, that if we have 
been so fortunate as to claim your atten- 


tion thus far, you would like to know a 
a little more about Stella Gibbons just 
now; but please be patient and you shall 
hear more of her by-and-by. We shall 
not forget her. Poor girl; she has the 
writer’s sympathy whether she has yours 
or not. 

When we last saw Miss Lucy Moorehead, 
she was a little piqued at witnessing a street 
interview between George Somers and 
Stella Gibbons, and resolved to teach the 
presumptuous policeman a bitter lesson 
in love-making. Her conscience was a 
little uneasy, but then, you know, young 
ladies come to look on flirting as a sort of 
innocent amusement; but sometimes it 
has turned into a serious matter in the 
end. 

Lucy had a good heart; but her great- 
est failing was, she did not comprehend 
human nature. She judged the rest of 
the world by those she met in the daily 
walks of life. 

These people, or some of them at least, 
were case-hardened so far as the nobler 
feelings of the human heart are concern- 
ed. They looked lightly upon life and 
those whose destiny had cast them into 
the furnace of affliction. 

Not long after Lucy had made up her 
mind to teach George Somers this very 
important lesson, she took her rounds 
among the poor people of the East End. 
A driver in livery was ready with carri- 
age and horses to go. She had an en- 
gagement with a lady acquain tance, who 
was to accompany her on her mission of 
mercy. Lucy, therefore, directed John 
to drive to the house of her friend. 
Arrived, she found the young lady suffer- 
ing from a severe headache that forbid 
her appearance on the street. Lucy re 
solved to go alone, and was driven to 
Third and Lawrence streets, where she 
alighted and directed John to either re- 
main, or return in an hour. The reason 
Lucy did not wish to appear in the 
lower quarters of the city in a carriage, 
was that it created so much comment 
among those she came to serve. So she 
preferred to go among them on foot, and 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


47 


dressed in her plainest habjt. Thus did 
Lucy go from one to another, hearing 
tales of woe and suffering, and wonder- 
ing how people could be reduced to such 
pitiable poverty. Yet in the goodness of 
her heart did Lucy wish she had the 
means at hand, to relieve all the suffer- 
ing there was in the world. “ Why 
should people,’’ she thought, “go to 
foreign lands to help the poor while 
there were so many needy at home?” 
Thus did she go from house to house, 
and hearing these tales of sorrow began 
to give her an insight into human charac- 
ter. Heretofore she had been fcokiug 
mostly on the bright side of the picture, 
but now the other side stood before her in 
all all its unpleasant distinctness of out- 
line. 

At one house everything seemed quite 
neat and tidy. The woman said her hus- 
band had been sick three weeks, confined 
to his bed. 

“You have sons that are able to work? ” 
suggested Lucy. 

“No, my children are all too small to 
work.” 

“Then how do you manage to live ? ” 

The woman hung down her head a mo- 
ment, and then replied; 

“My husband is an Odd Fellow, Miss, 
and the lodge always takes care of its sick. 
They send a nurse here every evening, 
who stays through the night.” 

Lucy opened her bright eyes. 

“But,” said she, “that does not buy 
bread for you and the children.” 

•‘Oh no, of course not, but I suppose you 
know that the Lodge pays weekly benefits 
to those who are sick and disabled; that is 
of its own members.” 

“ Indeed I I know but little about Odd 
Fellows. I have seen them parading 
about the streets with flashy uniforms on, 
but I supposed they didn’t amount to any- 
thing.” 

At this the woman bridled up a little. 
“You are mistaken. Miss.” If it wasn’t 
for these good people, hundreds of us 
would starve with your church folks look- 
ing at us,” 


Lucy was a little chagrined, but said 
nothing — only waited. 

The woman continued: “The oflflcers 
come once a week, and pay us the benefits 
in money, notin promises. George Som- 
ers, the Noble Grand of husband’s lodge, 
was here not an hour ago and handed us 
our money.” 

Lucy colored a little at the mention of 
the name, but soon recovered her compos- 
ure. Consulting an elegant gold watch, 
she saw that she yet had half an hour be- 
fore the time appointed to meet the dri- 
ver. It occurred to her that she was now 
somewhere is Stella Gibbons’ neighbor- 
hood; she would ask the woman if she 
knew her. The woman did not but direct- 
ed Lucy to call at No. street and 

they could tell her. Lucy noted down the 
number and street and took her departure. 
As she walked along she reflected upon 
what had just been told her. 

She had noticed Somers wearing a pin 
bearing some strange device which she 
did not understand. Then he was one of 
these Odd Fellows she had heard so much 
about. Perhaps it was a good institution, 
and perhaps not. While thus reflecting, 
and occasionally consulting the ivory tab- 
let, she came to the number and touched 
the bell. There was no name on tftie 
door, but the building showed evidence of 
fresh paint. The freestone steps were as 
clean as a new pin. The door opened, and 
a middle-aged handsome woman invited 
Lucy to enter. 

“No, thank you, I only called to inquire 
where Mrs. -Gibbons lives, as I am told 
she lives not far from here.” 

The woman reflected a moment, and 
then replied: 

“I think 1 have heard my son speak of 
her, and I am sure he knows. Please step 
in a moment and be seated while I call 
him.” 

Lucy walked in and sat down while the 
lady went out. She had time to look 
around her. Although the room was not 
gorgeously furnished, there was an air of 
elegance about every thing. Good taste 
must ha?e been at the bottom of it all, to 


I 


48 


NO MONEY; 


give to the room such a cozy look, and at 
such small expense. Books with substan- 
tial bindings lay upon the center-table, 
while the sofas and chairs stood around 
the room, tidy but not stiff. Two or three 
paintings of some merit hung upon the 
walls. A chromo in particular attracted 
her attention. It was a shipwreck scene. 
A man was clinging to a rude raft holding 
his wife, while near by floated the appar- 
ently lifeless body of a child. In the dis- 
tance, a boat was rapidly approaching. 
In the bow a man seemed to be throwing 
up his arms as if making gestures to the 
one on the raft. She did not understand 
the picture, though she felt it must have a 
meaning. 

Lucy’s thoughts were disturbed by ap- 
proaching footsteps, and presently the 
lady returned followed by a man in the 
fatigue suit of a policeman. Lucy looked 
and blushed crimson. It was George 
Somers. 

The policeman was scarcely behind 
Lucy in blushing; but this did not pre- 
vent him from advancing and extending 
his hand, which she took. She tried to 
make some excuse for intruding on their 
privacy, but George stopped her with — 

“We are only too happy to have you 
here. Allow me to introduce you to my 
mother. Miss Moorhead.” Both ladies 
bowed. 

“I called, Mr. Somers, to inquire the lo- 
cation of the house where Mrs. Gibbons 
and Stella live,” 

“I feel quite sure. Miss Moorhead, you 
will never find it without a guide; so if you 
will accept one so humble, I shall be 
pleased to act in that capacity.’’ 

Lucy smiled assent, and Somers disap- 
peared and exchanged his coat with metal 
buttons for another without these emblems 
of authority. 

George and Lucy set out, leaving Mrs. 
Somers in wonderment at what she had 
seen. What with blushing faces and 
stammering tongues she was confused and 
anxious to know the meaning of it. George 
Somers never felt more happy in all his 
life, than when walking along the street 


with this lovely girl. The very houses 
never looked so grand before. The air 
never seemed so balmy and soft. He in- 
haled* an atmosphere of love. From the 
bottom of his soul he wished Mrs. Gibbons 
had lived in Covington, or even St. Louis, 
provided he could have had the company 
of such an angelic creature for his com- 
panion on the journey. 

But it did not take them long to reach 
the humble tenement-house. George 
mounted the creaking stairway, followed 
by Lucy. The door of Mrs. Gibbons’ 
room was opened, but what a sight met 
their viewl The poor woman sat by the 
stove, wringing her hands and weepin ; 
bitterly, while Willie stood by sharing his 
mother’s grief. Lucy looked to George 
for an explanation. He had none to give. 
She approached Mrs. Gibbons te nderly 
and took her hand. My dear Mrs. Gib- 
bons, what is the matter?” This only 
add^d fuel to the flame, but in a little 
while she was calmer, and drew from her 
lap an envelope with the end clipped off, 
which she handed to Lucy to read. Lucy 
drew out the note and silently scanned the 
contents, which ran thus: 

“Cincinnati, 18 , 18 — . 

“Mrs. Gibbons. — It is with a sad heart 
that I inform you, that I saw your daugh- 
ter, yesterday, on one of the steamers 
bound south. She informed me that she 
had wearied of such an humble life, and 
had fully resolved to try something better, 
at least a change from her present condi- 
tion. I feel quite sure that you will be 
alarmed at her absence, and hence I 
have taken the liberty of writing you this 
note. A Friend.” 

Lucy trembled violently as she read, 
and the note dropped from her hand and 
fell on the floor. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

The Big Judge was not so named on 
account of any vast amount of legal loro 
that was supposed to repose in the judicial 
brain of that important functionary, nor 
yet because he was a mountain of flesh, 
but rather on account of the powerful in- 
fluence he wielded over the destwie^ of th© 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


miserable wretches that were daily mar- 
shaled in his court for sentence. 

He decided those petty cases that were 
too insignificant to be heard in Common 
Pleas. 

Trifling as many of these cases really 
were, there were others that, in sentence 
and fine, covered a period of nearly or 
quite two years. The ,law, we believe, only 
gives the Big Judge the ri-^ht to send up 
prisoners for one year, yet when we re- 
member that he can impose a fine of two 
hundred dollars in addition, which must 
be eked out at seventy-five cents per day, 
it requires but little arithmetic to ascer- 
tain that the pooi wretch gets two hundred 
and sixty-six days in addition. 

A court of common pleas would have 
called a jury to hear and weigh the evi- 
dence before giving a judgment involving 
such a long term of imprisonment, but 
under the police regulation the judge acts 
in the capacity of the jury. 

The location of a man’s residence, even 
in Ohio, has, much to do with his trial and 
punishment. If he lives in the country, 
and steals ten dollars’ worth of property, 
he is arraigned before a j ury of his coun- 
trymen and an inquiry made into his of- 
fense. But, on the other hand, suppose 
the culprit lives in Cincinnati ; then his 
case comes before the Police Judge, and 
is disposed of in a hasty manner, and oft- 
en, we fear, upon the flimsiest testimony, 
such as would not weigh an atom with 
twelve of our honest countrymen. You 
say the prisoner may demand a jury ; but 
in the light of a recent expression that is 
said to have fallen from the lips of an Ex- 
Police Judge, it is not strange that they 
decline to do so. This l^irned disciple of 
Blackstone, when interrogated as to how 
he avoided having juries called on him, 
replied : 

When a prisoner demanded a jury, 
and that jury convicted him, I always 
gave the fellow the severest sentence the 
law allowed. 'I’his soon stopped their de- 
manding juries '■ 

The fault does not rest with the judge, 


49 

but with the system. It is rotten to the 
bottom. 

The Big Judge who presided on this 
occasion was not a man of equable temper, 
and like many very ordinary mortals, was 
given to “spells’’ of iritability. Those 
who knew him best were aware that he 
carried his domestic troubles to the bench 
with. The rankling wound of many a 
curtain lecture at home often found vent 
in long sentences and fierce warnings to 
the miserable herd in the dock. 

On the morning of the day on which 
Stella Gibbons was to have her trial the 
Big Judge and his better half had come 
to a misunderstanding about some trivial 
matter. It may have been a “rat or a 
mouse,’’ but it matters not ; hot words 
ensued, and this legal luminary with a 
curse upon all women, rushed off to deal 
justice in court. 

His face was flushed as he entered the 
court-room, and the prosecuting atto'rney 
read the story so legibly written there. 
The “ regulars ” also read their doom un- 
der that lowering brow. 

The court-room was filled by the loafers 
and bummers that are usually on hand to 
witness the miseries of fallen humanity. 

The newspapers have sought in vain to 
burlesque these loafers out of court, but 
curiosity still holds them to their accus- 
tomed haunts. Their hides are impervi- 
ous to such aelicate missiles as newspaper 
articles. 

Nothing short of grape and canister, or 
ball and chain, will ever rid the court of 
these human vultures. Then there was 
the fussy prosecutor, who was supposed to 
be “ man Friday ” to his honor. When 
the judge lacked brains or legal acumen, 
this important official was sure to throw 
himself into the breach. Then, too, there 
were lawyers without causes, buzzing 
hither and thither among the prisoners. 
These shysters (as police court lawyers are 
often termed) were supposed to wield a 
certain mesmeric influence over his honor, 
and thereby soften the blow to the culprit. 
Reader, if on an unlucky day you should 
be in tUe dock, be sure to get the most 


50 


NO MONEY; 


I 


influential shyster to plead your cause. 

The court was opened in due form, and 
the causes were called in rapid succession. 
The docket showed thirty-five cases, and 
there were just three hours in which to 
hear and decide them. 

If the cases of Warren Hastings or 
Henry Ward Beecher had come before his 
Honor, the Police Judge, we feel confident 
that, instead of occupying months in their 
hearing, they would have been disposed of 
in fifteen minutes. This system has the 
one redeeming merit of not keeping the 
prisoner long in suspense as to what his 
sentence may be — the jury never disagrees. 

The first case called was Bridget Ma- 
lony (a regular) ; charge, “ drunk and dis- 
orderly.^’ 

“ Well, Bridget, what is the matter with 
you ? ’’ 

“ Yer honor, on yesterday I had a sore- 
nose, and — ” 

“ There, that will do, Bridget. It will 
take fifteen days in the work-house to cure 
that nose.” [Exit B. Malony.] 

“ Ben Pine, I hope you don’t hail from 
North Carolina.’’ 

“ No, your Honor, am from New Jer 
sey.” 

“Well, Mr. Pine, to the discredit of your 
State, I find you charged with stealing a 
saw. Who saw Ben Pine steal the saw?” 

An officer here testified that he found 
Ben with the saw in his possession and 
trying to sell it. 

“If you had been using the saw I should 
have felt more disposed to let you go; but 
as it is a clear case you must go to the 
work-house for twenty days.” 

Ben Pine was for entering a protest, 
but the officer kindly took his arm and led 
him down stairs. Case followed case in 
rapid succession. Some were let off 
with a warning, others were sentenced. 

While all these cases were being dispos- 
ed of, there was a little by-play that we 
must not fail to notice. 

A little whiffit of a fellow, with a mus- 
tache and whiskers so faint that it re- 
quired a good light and the proper angle 
of observation to trace them, approached 


Stella and inquired if she wanted an attor 
ney. She was quietly crying. Between 
her sobs she replied that she had but little 
money. 

“Have you as much as five dollars?” ho 
asked tenderly. 

Stella nodded. 

“Then give it to me, and I will defend 
you.’’ 

Without uttering 'a word she put her 
hand in her pocket, and drawing forth the 
money gave it to the lawyer. 

The little fellow’s eye glittered as he 
fobbed the bill much as a hotel waiter re- 
ceives and hides a quarter put into hi* 
itching palm by a liberal guest. Then 
this little lawyer with the lightish whiskers 
began to comb his hair^ upward with his 
fingers, to add to the fierceness of his 
otherwise meek countenance. His next 
move was to tilt his chair back against a 
table and exhibit his shoe-soles to the 
Judge, by elevating his feet on the back 
of the chair next in front. This change 
of posture demanded a change of hands, 
and his thumbs naturally formed hooks in 
the armholes of his vest, from which de- 
pended the digits. He had now obtained 
that coveted position of young lawyers, 
the right to say “my client,’’ and he was 
therefore content to wait and watch 
events. 

He had not long to wait, for the Judge 
soon came to the name of Annette Lee. 
The Judge called the case, but there was 
no response. 

The shyster nudged his client. 

“Why don’t you answer,” he whispered. 

“Because that is not my name,’’ she 
replied. 

“No matter. Miss, what name laey call 
you, don’t rile his Honor, or it will be all 
the worse for you.” 

Thus admonished by her counsel Stella 
stood up. 

“Miss Lee, you are charged with carry- 
ing concealed weapons and shooting with 
intent to kill — a very serious charge 
against one so young. Do you plead 
guilty or not guilty?’’ 

‘‘Not guilty,” whispered her attorney. 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


61 


Stella responded accordingly. 

Just then Stella for the first time noticed 
Paul Annear sitting in close consultation 
with oflBcer Billingsly and the Prosecutiner 
Attorney. One hat would have covered 
the three heads. 

‘^Call officer Billingsly.” • 

The officer stood up and testified “that 
as he was passing a certain house on his 
beat, he and his partner heard loud words 
and paused a moment to listen. Just 
then the front door was opened and 
Mr. Annear appeared, closely pursued by 
the prisoner, with a small pistol cocked 
and pointed at his head. My mate and I 
secured the weapon, and run the prisoner 
in.” 

Cross-questioned by the counsel: 

Counsel — Did you say wrested the pis- 
tol from my client’s hands? 

Policeman — I did. 

Counsel — Was it loaded then? 

Policeman — It was. 

Counsel — Every chamber? 

Policeman — Yes, everyone. 

Counsel — That is all. 

The next witness called was Paul An- 
near. He testified in substance, that he 
had called at the house of one of his 
father’s tenants on some business. That 
he here met the prisoner whose displeasure 
he had incurred at some previous period. 
No sooner did she see him than she drew 
a pistol and fired at his head. She then 
ordered him out of the house, making 
many threatening gestures with the pistol, 
and by holdiug it occasionally in close 
proximity with his head, she put him in 
bodily fear of his life. 

Cross-questioned by counsel for defense: 

Counsel — You say that my client here 
fired at you? 

Annear — Yes, sir. 

Counsel — Are you sure? 

Annear — I am. 

Counsel — Then how can you explain 
that the pistol was loaded when it came 
into the hands of officer Billingsly a few 
minutes afterward? 

Annear — I don’t know, sir, rather dog- 
gedly. 


Counsel — That will do. 

“Call the witnesses for the defense, if 
any,” said the Big Judge. 

Paul Annear turned a shade paler. 

None appeared. 

“Prisoner have you anything to say?*’ 
asked his honor in an unkind tone. 

Stella stood up. She swept the audi- 
ence with a glance. They were cold and 
unsympathetic. The story of Paul Annear 
had chilled the blood in her veins, and she 
did not until now realize what a great 
criminal she was in drawing a pistol, given 
her by a policeman, in self defense. 

Stella was dumb and sat down without 
being able to articulate a stngle word. 
She buried her face in her hands. 

His Honor — Your penitence comes too 
late. Miss.” He would doubtless have 
been delighted to have seen Mrs. Big 
Judge equally humble. “You are aware, 
no doubt, that you have violated the law,” 
a judicial frown; “yes, violated a law that 
protects every man’s life. Suppose you 
had killed this man, (no great loss thinks 
the reader). The Court shudders to think 
of the consequences to you. I confess I 
am astonished. Miss, to think one so young 
and fair, should even contemplate so hor- 
rible a crime. The shedding of human 
blood should be a last resort, and then 
only in the clearest cases of self-defense 

“It was self-defense,” gasped Stella. 

“It has not been shown in evidence, and 
until it is I must be permitted to believe 
you the aggressor; therefore, as the repre- 
sentative of the offended law, it becomes 
my unpleasant duty to administer to you 
a severe sentence even for a first offense. 
Had it been clearly established that you 
really fired the pistol, it would be doubled 
in time and fine, I therefore sentence you 
to thirty days in the work-house and a 
fine of twenty-five dollars and costs. 
Take the prisoner below, and call the next 
case.” 

Stella was chilled to the bone by the 
freezing words of the Judge, and when the 
climax was reached she uttered one cry of 
despair that would have touched a sympa- 
thetic heart as keenly as the point of a 


62 


NO MONEY} 


needle. Conscious of her own innocence 
and of the rectitude of all that she had 
done, poor thing, she did not realize that 
courts are guided by evidence and not by 
sympathy. A general smile of the motley 
crew of loafers in the space allotted the 
audience, was the welcome that her dis- 
tress received. 

The court officer saw that she was faint, 
and, promptly stepping to her assistance, 
led her away. 

This wonderful Judge had heard and 
disposed of this casein just fifteen minutes. 
It is a pity the great assault and battery 
ease of David vs. Goliah had not come be- 
fore his Honor; for we feel confident its 
hearing would not have covered a space of 
over twelve minutes, while the hisrotian 
has spread its details and consequences 
over pages. Let the good people of Cin- 
cinnati fall down in blind adoration of a 
system that places the scepter of power in 
the hands of one man— a power that with-, 
in its orbit is as great as that wielded by 
any monarch of Europe. In this day of 
fi«e schools and free thought, is it not 
strange that so miserable a sham upon 
justice should so long exist? 

When the Big Judge had moved the 
prisoners right and left, he adjourned 
court. 

He had usually about so many cases to 
hear, and if the number was increased, 
then the time devoted to each must be 
less. 

Who could expect so important an offi- 
cial to allow his mutton to grow cold for 
the sake of hearing testimony? Human 
nature is too weak to brook the idea- 

As soon as the court had adjourned, 
the Big Judge, the prosecutor and the 
shyster, went over the street to take a 
drink to give them a zest for their dinners. 

The “Black Maria,*’ the prison wagon, 
rolled up to the door of the station-house 
and the miserable prisoners who had re 
ceived sentence were loaded up, and under 
guard of an officer, driven out to the 
Work- house. 


CHAPTER XVIL 

Lucy Moorehead scarce knew what 
words of consolation to offer to Mrs. Gib- 
bons in this hour of affliction. Her heart 
bled as she comprehended the terrible 
blow that had fallen on this humble woman. 
Nor was Lucy unconscious of the grave 
error that Stella had committed — an error 
that women never excuse or pity in their 
own sex. With such a taint upon her 
character, what could this poor misguided, 
willful girl, ever hope, either now or here- 
after. 

Meanwhile George Somers had caught 
up the discarded note that lay open on the 
floor, and was eagerly scanning the con- 
tents. Lucy furtively cast her eyes to the 
face of the young policeman, and started 
as she noticed the marks of passion en- 
graved on its lineaments. The cheek* 
were red, and the whole face flushed. 

“That’s a lie from the beginning to the 
end,” he said, as if forgetful of the presence 
of ladies. “I beg your pardon, ladies; but 
if I was ever tempted to commit murder, 
that time is the present.” 

Mrs. Gibbons looked up through her 
tears, and Lucy shot a timid glance into 
George’s face. 

“What do you think has become of my 
child ? ” asked Mrs. Gibbons. 

“I hardly know, Madam, but rest assur- 
ed that she has not gone south on any 
steamer. But calm your fears. I will 
have a thousand keen eyes searching for 
her before twenty-four hours roll around. 
All will be done to find her that human in- 
genuity can devise. 

And turning to Lucy, he said, “Miss 
Moorhead, after I have seen you to your 
carriage, my work begins.” 

“I shall not keep you from so charit- 
able a work,” said Lucy; and after speak- 
ing a few kind, hopeful words to the widow 
they took their^departure. 

As they walked along, George sudden- 
ly turned to Lucy and said: 

“You doubtless thought my conduct 
strange on reading that letter; but, as a 
policeman, many things come to my 
knowledge that others do not know. Now^ 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


63 


I do not perhaps feel a much greater in- 
terest in Stella Gibbons than I do in thou- 
sands of others in ray ward who are in- 
trusted to my keeping} yet when I see 
those who are rich shamelessly tramping 
upon the rights of those who have no 
money, I almost feel vicious. Here is a 
girl whose offense is that she has a fair 
face and is poor, and a villainous wretch, 
as I believe, has taken some mean ad- 
vantage of her, because he has the money 
to fee the lawyers.’’ 

George Somers had never risen to such 
dignity in Lucy’s estimation before. 

‘*I do not understand you, Mr. Somers. 
You speak in riddles. 

“Perhaps I do, but if Stella should prove 
as innocent as I believe her to be, she can, 
if she chooses relate her trials to you. 
They are enough to chill the blood of a 
girl of her age.’’ 

“I must be content to wait, then. But, 
oh 1 Mr. Somers, do try and find the poor 
girl and restore her to her grief-stricken 
mother.” 

“I will do all that human energy can 
do. Meanwhile please do not reveal in 
public what you have heard. Remember 
the poor girl’s character is at stake. It 
will be soon enough to denounce her after 
we know she has erred.” 

“Trust me, the subject shall never be 
mentioned to any one. But you spoke of 
having a large number of keen eyes search- 
ing for her. How will you enlist so re- 
spectable an army of sympathizing 
friends ? ” 

“ I will tell you} Miss Gibbons’ father 
was an Odd Fellow, and it is the duty of 
the thousands of the craft in this city to 
defend the child.” 

“ Oh, I see now. I almost begin to like 
the Odd Fellows.” 

“ And well you may,’’ returned George} 
“ for they are a powerful body of men, both 
rich and poor combined for a great pur- 
pose. But I see we are at your carriage 
door.’’ 

Lucy put out her hand as he handed her 
in. 

“ May we not have the pleasure of see- 


ing you at our church on Sabbaths ? ” she 
asked. 

“You may possibly} for I begin to feel 
as if I should be pleased to see you often- 
er.” 

Lucy blushed, and told John to drive 
her home. 

George Somers was mortified that Lucy 
had only invited him to church — a place 
where he had a perfect right to go without 
an invitation. He had hoped for more than 
this. ; 

Oh, these young lovers. They can nev- 
er learn the way to a woman’s heart. To 
how many is the path a dismal swamp. 
They grope their way in darkness because 
they can not read the signs of the times. 
Then they are so unreasonable and un- 
reasoning — they expect a girl to do all 
the courting, the very thing she ought not 
to do under any circumstances. Many a 
girl has been lost to a bashful lover, be- 
cause he had not the manliness to declare 
his passion at the right moment. George 
Somers had no time to stop then and reason 
on matters of the heart} he had a great 
work before him. His first duty was to 
go to police head-quarters, and report to 
to the chief, giving a written description 
of the girl. These chiefs of police are a 
skeptical set of people. They listen to 
many stories of people being absent — pro- 
mise everything and do nothing. Somers 
next sought out Mr. Peckover. He found 
that worthy gentleman in his office up to 
his eyes in business. No sooner did he 
see Somers than he threw down his pen 
and extended a hearty welcome to him. 

“ Is it possible that the girl has dis- 
appeared from home. Brother Somers? ” 

“ Nothing surer. I have just come from 
there, and Mrs. Gibbons is taking o» sq, 
that it almost makes me cry to see her 
grief.’’ 

“ I dare say, poor creature. But I have 
an idea. I’ll go right home and send Mfs. 
Peckover down directly, and let her try 
and comfort the good woman, while I go 
about among our Lodge folks, and see 
what can be done.” 

“ That’s right, and in the meantime I 


64 


NO MONEYj 


will go Among such of the police, as are 
members of our Order, and try to excite 
them to keep a keen lookout.’’ 

I shall see some of the prominent mem- 
.bers of each Lodge in the city, and we 
will hold a private meeting this evening 
to divide the work. We must not leave a 
rat-hole unsearched.” 

“ Well, ril be off now. I suppose we 
will meet at the lodge-room this evening ? ’’ 

“ No better meet at my house first, and 
decide on a future course. Come prompt- 
ly at eight o’clock.” 

With a promise to be on hand, Somers 
Hurried away. He had not said anything 
to Mr. Peckover about his own suspicions, 
but he had them. Taking Paul Annear’s 
previous conduct in account, he had no 
doubt that he was in some way connected 
with Stella’s absence. He would know. 

George first went to the office of his 
chief, and obtained leave of absence for 
the night. ' He next went down to the 
Central Station and looked over the regis- 
ter. He scanned each name and strange 
to say read the name of Annette Lee with- 
out even a suspicion crossing his mind 
that there might have been a mistake 
somewhere. From Ninth street, he went 
to Hammond street, then to Third street, 
and lastly to Bremen street, searching the 
slates of all these several stations and 
making inquiries. This was the very 
afternoon that Stella had been sent to the 
work-house. Having looked in all these 
places, he went down town and ascertained 
what steamer had gone south. But one 
had departed for points beyond Louisville 
— the Westmoreland, bound for New Or- 
leans. He telegraphed a description of 
the girl to a friend in Louisville, feeling 
sure that the boat must be yet at that 
point. In an hour a dispatch came, that 
no such person had taken passage on the 
Westmoreland. He then went and visited 
all the packets in port, and it so happened 
that they were the very ones that had de- 
parted on the day Stella was missing, 
having come back for a return trip. 

What he had learned thus far, only went 
to convince George Somers that there was 


some mystery connected with the sending 
of the note to Mrs. Gibbons, and that 
Paul Annear was at the bottom of it. He 
went to Mrs. Gibbons and got the note 
anci put it in his pocket. Mrs. Peckover was 
there and had partially succeeded in sooth- 
ing the poor woman. In answer to an in- 
quiry as to what he had learned, George 
told Mrs. Gibbons that he had satisfied 
himself that the note was false. Beyond 
this he would not venture a conjecture. 
That night there was a conference at the 
house of Thomas Peckover — ^those present 
consisting of eighteen or twenty Odd Fel- 
lows. There were also present, Crabster 
and Cruger, detectives. 

Well brothers,” said Thomas Peckover, 
“ I have detailed to each of you the cir- 
cumstances under which this poor girl has 
disappeared. I have taken the liberty of 
inviting a couple of well-known detectives 
to be present, thinking that they might 
materially assist us in the search. 

“Now, detectives expect to be paid, ol 
course. I propose, for one, to give fifty 
dollars to the person who finds Stella 
Gibbons. ” Another brother gave twenty- 
five, and so they continued, until a purse 
of two hundred dollars had been subscribed. 
The detectives, after getting a full 
description, took their departure. 

“ Those chaps will hunt this town good,” 
said Mr. Peckover ; “ but we must be on 
the lookout as well. We can do it quietly, 
but not less earnestly.” They then pro- 
ceeded to divide the city into districts, to 
watch and hunt. It was made the business 
ot one to hunt the hospitals, public and 
private. Another was charged to make 
inquiries at all the hotels. And so they 
divided the work — systematically arranged 
it so that there would be no confusion. 
The detectives assured them that through 
their agents, they would go through and 
through every den of iniquity in the cityj 
and it seemed tljat no place would be left 
unsearched. 

George Somers had his own ideas, ana 
he meant to keep them to himself and 
work them out after his own way. 

Meanwhile we must not forget McFloy. 


AN ODD FELLOWS' STORY. 


66 


No sooner had the ofl&cers marched Stella 
away to the station house, than Jane be- 
gan to experience a horrible and undefined 
fear. She therefore, without a moment’s 
delay, began to pack her household goods, 
Dreparatory to a hasty flight. 

When Paul Annear returned from the 
Central Station, he found the Madam with 
her sleeves rolled up, and just on the eve 
of tearing up a carpet. 

** What means this ? ” he asked. 

“ You may well ask what it means, when 
it was you that brought this trouble upon 
me.” 

You were handsomely paid,^ sneered 
Annear. 

“Well, that’s a question. I don’t 
believe anybody was ever paid for making 
themselves outlaws.” 

“You are not alarmed, I hope, 
Madam?*’ 

“Why shouldn’t I be? Do you suppose 
that girl won’t bring the police down on 
me?’’ 

“No danger at present. I will see 
that she goes to the work-house. When 
she comes out again, I’ll be around and 
see if she’s got tamed.” 

“My opinion is that you had better let 
that girl alone, if she has any friends.” 

“Your opinion is not worth much.” 

Madam McKoy shot him. a glance that 
pierced him through. “You had better 
not get too peppery; a line from me would 
open people’s eyes and might make 
trouble.” 

“There, there; don’t go into a rage. We 
must be friends, and so let your carpet 
alone. I will give you a word of warning 
if worst comes to worst. Now, come into 
your office and write a letter for me.” 
Thither they went, and while Paul indict- 
ed, the Madam wrote the note that Mrs. 
Gibbons received. 

The next night Paul Annear came in, 
and hastily closed the door. His next 
move was to go to the window and cau- 
tiously peer out The Madam noticed 
this strange conduct and asked an explan- 
ation. 

“Hist,” said Paul in a whisper. 


After watching a few minutes, he turned 
away from the window. 

“That infernal policeman, George Som- 
ers, has been dogging me for half a dozen 
squares. I suppose he thinks 1 didn’t see 
him. Now he is standing at the mouth of 
an alley on the opposite side of the street. 
I believe I’ll try the effect of a shot at 
him. . Maybe that will teach him to attend 
to his own business;’’ and Paul drew out 
a navy six shooter. 

Madam McKoy caught his arm. “Not 
for the world. You would probably miss 
him, and then the whole force would be 
down on us in a minute.” 

Paul turned fiercely on the woman. 
“You are a coward, but I suppose you 
don’t want to lose your property. How 
much do you value your traps at?” 

Outside of my wardrobe, at least a hun- 
dred and fifty dollars.’’ 

“Then here’s your money. Pack your 
wardrobe and travel.” The Madam was a 
little surprised at this sudden offer, but she 
accepted and soon had the trunk ready. 
She dragged it out on the street and hail- 
ed a passing hack, and while the driver 
took up the trunk she sprang inside and 
away she went. 

Three hours later there was a cry of fire, 
and the flame burst out of the room and 
upper windows of Madam McKoy’s late 
residence. The engines came dashing up 
and rapidly unrolled their leather hose, 
but they were too late. The flames were 
now hissing their long red tongues out at 
every window in the house. The water 
was thrown upon it in torrents and then 
the lurid glare softened down and a dense 
cloud of smoke and steam rolled up from 
the debris, the walls tottered and fell, and 
nothing was left but the smoking, smol- 
dering ruins. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Those in the secret of Stella Gibbons’s 
absence, and earnestly engaged in the 
search, dropped into Mr. Peckover’s one 
after another. There were solemn coun- 
tenances, but no one had even a clue. Of 
those present, on the previous evening, but 


68 


NO MONEY; 


two remained unheard from, namely, 
Crabster and Cruger, detectives, and Po- 
ficeman Somers. Presently Mr. Crabster 
came in to report that he had so far been 
unable to get any trace of the girl what- 
ever. His men had hunted the town Irom 
end to end, and he felt quite sure she must 
have left the city. While those present 
were debating what was the next step 
to be taken, a small boy called and handed 
in a note. It was addressed to Thomas 
Peckover. The old gentleman tore off the 
envelope, and carefully adjusted his spec- 
tacles. He hastily scanned its contents, 
and while a smile of satisfaction lighted 
up his noble countenance, he said ; “Bro- 
thers, this begins to look like business — 
listen.” Every voice was hushed. 

“Thomas Peckover: Dear Sir and 
Brother — I am happy to inform you that I 
have got a clue to the missing girl, Stella 
Gibbons. Will know soon if I am correct, 
and report at nine o’clock P. M. 

Yours, 

George Somers. 

There was a general buzz of approval 
over this welcome bit of intelligence. Of 
course all other proposals came to a stand- 
still, until Somers arrived. 

At nine o’clock George came in, looking 
rather solemn, so those present augured 
that he had failed or been mistaken. He 
took a seat, and Mr. Peckover said, 
"Well.” 

“I have found her.” 

“ Where ? ” asked half a dozen voices 
in a breath. . 

“ In the work-house.” 

“Oh, impossible!” said Mr. Crabster, 
** for I was out there myself and looked 
over the register.” 

“ I can’t help that, sir. I say she is 
there, for I saw her myself not two hours 
ago.” 

“ Wonderful I Why did I not find her?’’ 
And Mr. Crabster saw two hundred dollars 
go glimmering in the distance. 

“ Because she is not registered as Stella 
Gibbons but as Annette Lee.” 

“ Oh, that accounts for it; ’’ and Crab- 
ster’s official pride was mollified. 

“ Come, tell us the particulars, Brother 


Somers, for I am sure they are worth hear- 
ing.” 

“ Yes, yes,’’ said several others, "we 
want to hear.” 

“ Well, then, to begin, there is a villain 
in this city (I will not give his name now) 
who has conceived a sort of passion for 
this poor girl. She refused to hold any 
conversation with him. This young man 
is very respectably connected, and, it 
seems, always has plenty of money at his 
command. A short time since he at 
tempted to carry off this girl by force. He 
was aided in his efforts by a villainous 
hackman, whose name I have never been 
able to learn. Their plan was to catch 
her on the street and force her into a hack; 
but it failed, for just as they had seized 
the girl, a private watchman came up and 
interfered. My mate ran up, and the 
scoundrels took fright and fled. I con- 
tinued to look out for the villain, but he 
kept out of my way. Now as soon as I 
heard the girl had disappeared, I said to 
myself, This villain had a hand in it. So 
I went down to Mrs. Gibbons’s and found 
this note.” He here read note No. 2. “I 
learned there had been a previous note sent, 
asking the lady to send her daughter to a 
certain house on a certain street, but as 
the girl had taken the first note with her 
I could not ascertain the number. The 
last note I put in my pocket, believing 
that it might be of some use. I then 
went to work to find this villain. I hunt- 
ed him all day yesterday, but could not 
get sight of him. J ust after I had left the 
meeting last evening I accidentally met 
him. He was walking rapidly and seemed 
not to wish to be recognized. After he 
had gone a little way, I turned and follow- 
ed. It was hard to keep him in sight, and 
I am sure, from the way he dodged about, 
that he knew he was being followed. At 
last he went into a house down on Plum 
street, and I dodged into the mouth of an 
alley opposite. I saw him draw aside the 
curtain and peer cautiously out. I drew 
back deeper into the alley, and waited pa- 
tiently. After a time I saw this man and 
a woman drag a trunk out on the curb. 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


The man returned to the house, but the 
woman hailed a passing hack and got in 
and drove away. I followed and had a 
run for it, but managed to keep them in 
sight until they reached a depot at the 
lower end of the city. As the woman 
alighted, I followed her in and saw her 
buy a ticket to St. Louis. Then she went 
into the long depot where a train was 
ready to start. Just before she entered 
the cars, I tore the buckskin covering 
from my brass buttons that she might 
know me for a policeman. Stepping up I 
touched her gently on the arm, requesting 
her to stop a moment. She turned to me, 
first with a look of surprise, which faded 
into one of paleness as she recognized me 
as a policeman. She began to tremble, 
and I saw at once, by her whole manner, 
that she was guilty. 

“What do you want of me, sir?” she ask- 
ed, trying hard to assume an air of injured 
innocence. I told her that she had con- 
nived at the abduction of a girl by the 
name of Stella Gibbons. 

‘ This she denied bitterly at first; but as 
I was going only on suspicion and had 
sprung the trap, I stuck to it and told her 
I had abundant evidence. Here I drew 
out note No. 2, and charged her with that. 
It was a desperate game, but the cause 
was desperate. When she saw this letter, 
the woman began to cry directly. T’ll 
tell you what I’ll do, I said. She bright- 
ened up. ‘If you will tell me where this 
girl is at this moment and she has come to 
no harm, I will let you go.’ ‘She replied, 
well, I will, sir, though I ought not to do 
so. 

• Well out with it then for the last bell 
is ringing.’ 

‘She is in the City Work-house under 
the name of Annette Lee.’ 

‘How may I know that you are not de- 
ceiving me. Madam?’ 

‘Go and see for yourself.’ 

‘I felt sure she was telling the truth; 
but I replied, ‘I will go and see at once, 
but shall send a man along on the train 
to keep an eye on you, and if you should 
attempt to get off this side of St. Louis, 


57 

you will be arrested. By fhe time you 
reach your destination I will know all and 
if you have told the truth you can go on 
your way, but never let me see you in 
Cincinnati again.' She was glad enough 
to get away so easily. The train pulled 
out, and, if I am not badly mistaken, that 
woman’s guilt will make her uneasy all 
the way to St. Louis. Well I went at 
once to the Central Station, and found 
that a girl by the name of Annette Lee 
had been sent out on the char 'e of carry- * 
ing concealed weapons. I was quite sure 
this was the lost girl, for I had myself giv- 
en her a pistol after the first attempt at 
abduction. Well, this morning I went out 
to the Work-house and found that Stella 
Gibbons was there sure enough, and I 
have spent the remainder of the day run- 
ning from one Director to another trying 
to effect her release. This is Thursday, 
and the Board does not meet until Satur- 
day. Now, you could not get one Direc- 
tor to walk three squares to see another if 
it was a matter of life and death. I had 
thought that I might by this time report 
her safe at home, but I see no chance now 
before Saturday.” 

“You have had a time of it, anyway,” 
said Mr. Peckover. 

“And worked the case up in true detec- 
tive style,” said Mr. Crabster, admiringly. 

“And earned your money,” suggested 
another. 

“The money shall go to Miss Gibbons, 
brothers, she has suffered most.’’ 

“That’s good for you, Somers;” and 
they all shook hands cordially. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

The red tape is not all consumed in the 
capitol of the country. Small rolls of it 
are carefully distributed among the city 
officials of Cincinnati with which to bind 
up and clog the wheels of the municipal 
machinery. This fact Thomas Peckover 
found to his sorrow on the morning follow- 
ing the events narrated in the last chapter, 
when he was hurrying from one director 
to another, in a vain effort to effect a meet- 


68 


NO MONEY j 


ing of the Board. They all sympathized 
(official urbanity) with the girl in her 
trouble, but nothing could they do until 
Saturday afternoon. It would be a 
sacrifice of official dignity to convene an 
extra session on so slight a provocation. 
Weary and disgusted at last, Mr. Peckover 
went home. 

He had dispatched a messenger to Mrs. 
Gibbons on the previous evening, to notify 
her of her daughter’s safety, and further- 
more stating that the young lady would be 
restored to her afflicted relatives in the 
course of a couple of days at the farthest. 
Meanwhile we must not forget her whose 
life history plays so important a part in 
these pages. 

Stella was huddled into the Black Maria 
as the prison wagon was facetiously call- 
ed, with a half dozen others who had re- 
ceived sentence by the Police Judge. All 
were under guard of a policeman. Among 
the number was the woman whose wild 
ravings had so disturbed Stella on the 
previous evening. The woman was 
thoronghly sober now, and took her con- 
viction as a matter of course. Long in- 
ebriation had benumbed and partially 
paralyzed her intellect; but there was 
one problem she never forgot, namely, 
that one drunk always bronght one term 
in the work-house. 

This woman sought to draw Stella into 
a conversation, but the policeman, who 
pitied the poor girl, ordered the old hag to 
hush. The woman did hush; but she 
wore a look of injured innocence on her 
wrinkled face. It was to her a greater 
privation to hold her tongue than to be de- 
prived of her liberty. The wagon thump- 
ed and bonnced as it whirled along over 
the bowldered street. People cast one 
look of curiosity at the black vehicle as it 
passed, but they could not see within, nor 
what it contained. For aught they knew 
it might be loaded with a municipal tea 
party going out to the work house to feast 
on the contents of the superintendent’s 
larder. Or it might have been some visit- 
ing alderman from a neighboring munici- 
pality, being chaperoned about the 


suburbs with a view of impressing them 
with our rustic magnificence. 

The prison van wheeled in from the 
avenue in good style, and halted in front 
of the City Bastile. The prison is a very 
large and a very cold looking building, 
that spreads its wings right and left like 
a great quailnet. The windows are in 
rows that shows great mathematical pre- 
cision. The windows are to let in light, 
and not as some suppose to allow prison- 
ers an opportunity to feast their eyes upon 
the beauties of nature. 

The prisoners were marched in and duly 
registered. The superintendent was a 
man with a benevolent cast of countenance. 
One would not have taken him for a 
superintendent of a reformatory institu- 
tion. His mild countenance marked hijp 
as a man that wonld have appeared well 
in the pulpit of a church. 

When Stella gave him her right name, 
he stared, and wondered, and finally wrote 
it Annette Lee as it had been telegraphed 
from the police court. 

The prisoners were now separated, the 
women going into one waj*d, and the men 
into another. The Cincinnati work-house, 
for an institution subject to the caprice of 
local politics, is an admirably conducted 
institution. Everything is scrupulously 
clean, and the sanitary regnlations are all 
that could be required. The filthiest 
prisoner that enters the building, must go 
through a process of scrubbing, in order to 
make him clean and decent. 

The matron was a lady of feeling, and 
gave Stella a much warmer reception than 
she expected. Kind words even brought 
tears to the girl’s eyes, and caused her, as 
a last hope, to appeal to this woman’s 
sense of justice. With but little en- 
couragement, Stella with burning words 
poured into the good woman’s ear the sad 
story of her arrest, trial and sentence. 
She warmly denied that she was a criminal 
deserving of such a severe sentence. She 
pleaded her cause so eloquently that the 
Matron manifested symptoms of deep and 
earnest sympathy. 

“ Dry your tears, child, and go quietly 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


69 


to your cell,” aaid the matron, “and I 
will go and talk to the superintendent.’’ 
With a ray of hope faintly struggling in 
her heart, Stella entered the narrow limits 
of her cell and the gate clanged behind 
her and was locked by the guard. 

The matron went to the superintendent 
with Stella’s story. He listened patiently 
for he had great faith in the judgment of 
the matron, but replied that while it might 
all be true, he was powerless to do any- 
thing until the Board held one of their 
semi-monthly meetings. 

When the matron carried the superin- 
tendent’s answer to Stella, hope vanished 
again. 

She threw herself down on tlie bed in de- 
spair and wept herself asleep. 

Next morning she was taken with a 
number of other women into a large room 
and set to work on some coarse clothing 
for a firm in the city. This tended some- 
what to detract her thoughts from the 
overpowering sorrow that weighed down 
her spirits, though she was allowed to con- 
verse with no one but the forewoman, and 
then only on business. 

Often as her needle pierced the coarse 
fabric on which she was working, tears 
would silently course down her cheeks. 
Her body was in prison, but her thoughts 
were free as the air she breathed. 

The Creator has placed the mind beyond 
the reach of man to imprison. He has 
invested our thoughts with the mantle of 
secrecy that they might be free from the 
surveilance of those who surround us. 
Stella often thought of the loved ones at 
home j indeed she thought of little else. 
How she longed to fly to the bosom of that 
kind, gentle mother for consolation in this 
hour of affliction and seeming disgrace 1 
Would that dear mother think less of the 
child because she had been wrongfully 
sentenced to prison ? Poor thing 1 she 
had never in all her life spent a night 
away from home ; and now it seemed an 
age that she had been gone, so slowly does 
time drag on when the mind is weighed 
down by some great sorrow. 

On the second day after her incarcera- 


tion, Stella heard voices behind her, and 
instinctively looking over her shoulder, she 
gave a scream of joy at the unexpected 
sight. George Somers was standing in 
the doorway conversing with the superin- 
tendent. Stella threw down her work, and 
was on the point of rising to go to him, 
when the forewoman motioned her to keep 
her place. She sank back, frozen to the 
heart by the frown she saw on the face of 
the unfeeling forewoman. 

Stella turned pale and trembled in every 
limb, but there were no sympathizing 
hearts around her. The genial glow in 
those calloused bosoms had long since 
been snuffed out. Again she turned her 
head, hoping that either Somers or the 
superintendent would advance, but they 
were gone. 

How hard it was, she thought, not to be 
allowed to lay before George Somers 
the burden of her sorrow, and plead her 
innocence! .Why had he left so abruptly? 
Did he believe her guilty of the crime 
with which she stood charged, and thus 
believing, leave her to suffer out the unjust 
sentence ? Yet of all men on earth, 
George Somers was the one from whom 
she would fain have hidden her present 
degredation. 

CHAPTER XX. 

As nothing more could be done until 
Saturday, Thomas Peckover and the Odd 
Fellow friends were compelled to bide 
their, time in patience. Though fretting 
at the delay that kept an innocent girl in 
prison, they thought it better to restrain 
Iheir impatience than to run the risk of ir- 
ritating the prison trustees. As matters 
now stood they felt sure of their interest 
in the case. 

On Saturday afternoon a half dozen 
prominent and influential members of the 
Order attended the meeting of the Board 
which is held at the Work-house. After 
transacting some routine work, the case of 
Annette Lee alias Stella Gibbons was 
taken up. Policeman Somers was called 
and made his statement. Then Stella was 
called iu and made a succinct statement 


I 


NO MONEY; 


60 

of everything connected with her abduc- 
tion. She narrated her trials with such 
simplicity of manner, that there was not 
one that did not believe her a persecuted 
girl. 

“I think, gentlemen, we have heard 
enough,” said the President of the Board, 
running his eye over the countenances of 
his confreres? They nodded assent. Then 
one of the Board moved, “that Stella Gib- 
bons be dismissed, she being, in the opin- 
ion of the Board, innocent of any crime 
whatever, except the carrying of concealed 
weapons, and that in self defense.” The 
President put the motion, and it was car- 
ried unanimously. 

Then there was a rush of the Odd Pel- 
lows to congratulate Stella on her escape. 
Foremost was Mr. Peckover, and he wept 
tears of joy as he took the girl’s little 
trembling hand in his own. Then the 
others. crowded round, each eager to grasp 
her hand, though most of them had never 
seen her before in their lives. Such is the 
power of sympathy. 

Stella tried to thank them all, but her 
voice was scarcely audible. 

“There, that will do; come away,” said 
Mr. Peckover, taking her tenderly by the 
arm. He led her out into the open air and 
seated her in his buggy, and drove down 
the avenue. 

The pair rode on in silence for a little 
way. Mr. Peckover scarcely knew what 
to say, and Stella nestled beside him with 
the childish fondness she would have felt 
for a father. How she venerated the silver 
l«cks that softened and gave" benevolence 
to that kind face! 

“My dear child, you have had a sad ex- 
perience for one so young,’’ said the old 
gentleman, by way of opening a conversa- 
tion. 

“Oh, sir, it has been so sad; but if I 
am only esteemed none the less for it I can 
bear it all.” 

“I think nobody will think less of you. 
They can not when they know you are in- 
nocent. I had hoped to see that scoun- 
drel in jail before this, but he has left the 
city and I hope forever. And now if you 


ever see him again, or hear of him being 
here, let me know it at once, and I will 
take care that he does not molest you.” 

After a short pause she asked after her 
mother and little brother. 

“In my great trouble and selfishness to 
obtain my liberty,’’ she said, “I had forgot- 
ten those who are dearer to me than life, 
my dear mother and brother.” 

“Well, I have seen them both, they are 
well, but greatly distressed at your absence 
I sent them word evening before last that 
you had been found.’’ 

“Oh, I shall never know how to thank 
you enough for all your kindness to a poor 
family like ours.” 

“Whoa, Dick, behave yourself;” said 
Mr. Peckover. Now, be it known that 
Dick, the horse, was not misbehaving at 
all, but measuring off the jog trot. We 
surmise the old gentleman was scolding 
Dick a little to get his mind oflf the sub- 
ject. Flattery, be it ever so well deserved, 
always made him a little shaky. 

“I’m not the one that deserves the most 
credit, Stella; though I’ve been anxious 
enough to be sure.” 

“Whom else must I thank?” 

“Well, George Somers did the whole 
business. The rest of us piddled around, 
but he went to work like a man; got your 
track and worked night and day until he 
found you out.” 

Stella’s face turned scarlet at this wel- 
come bit of news. 

“God bless him,’’ she sighed. 

“Yes, my child, God will bless him; for 
he is a noble man, if the Creator ever made 
one.” 

Stella sat silent for a few minutes, and 
then asked: “Well, who else have I to 
thank?” 

“I don’t know except in a general way, 
but as Somers did all the work, that is the 
real work, I suppose we must give him all 
the credit.” 

Just then they halted in front of Stella’s 
humble home. Stella sprang out, and in- 
vited Mr. Peckover to come in; but he ex- 
cused himself and drove away. 

Reader, I wish I could do as much, but 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


he who takes the pen is like he who takes 
the sword, he must die b v it if need be. 

Stella ran lightly up the dear old stairs; 
its creak was sweeter than music in her 
ear. She stood in the door- way of her 
home Her mother and brother were 
there; she had half expected they would 
be dead; for it seemed an age since she 
went away on that fatal errand. At a 
glance she saw that her mother had been 
weeping — her eyes were red and blood- 
shot. Stella was shocked, her mother 
stood and stared at her so hard. She ad- 
vanced to put her arms around her neck, 
but her mother caught and held her at 
arm’s length. 

Stella turned pale. 

“Stella, why do you come back here 
after having disgraced your mother and lit- 
tle brother?” said Mrs. Gibbons sternly. 

“Oh, mother,” groaned the girl. 

“Your penitence comes too late; it 
should have come before not after you 
have sinned.” 

Stella threw herself on her knees, and 
cried with anguish. She thought to clasp 
her mother’s knees with her arms, but Mrs. 
Gibbons shook her off and paced the 
floor, showing signs of the greatest men- 
tal agony. 

“Great God! that I should live to see 
the day that my daughter has become an 
outcast. Oh that I had died before she 
was born.” 

The truth flashed upon the poor girl, 
and she raised her streaming eyes. 

“Oh, mother, you misjudge me; I am 
innocent.” 

“Prove it, girl; prove it, or my heart 
will break.” 

“Oh, mother, if good kind Mr. Peckover 
was here, he could tell you all. ’ 

“I am here, God be praised,” said one 
at the door. They looked, and the vener- 
able trustee stood a spectator of the 
scene. 

“Oh, do tell her all,” pleaded Stella, 
turning to Mr. Peckover. 

“I will, dear child. Mrs. Gibbons calm 
yourself.” 

Mr. Peckover then narrated the whole 


story, just as the reader has heard it. When 
he had finished Mrs. Gibbons was crying. 
Turning to Stella she said: 

“Oh, my daughter, can you forgive your 
poor, poor mother her unjust suspicion?” 

Stella’s answer was by throwing her arras 
around her mother’s neck and weeping 
Her mother kissed and wept over her, and 
Willie who stood in awe at what waf 
passing, came up and tried to put his little 
arms around both of them, and he, too, 
wept from sympathy. When their joy had 
somewhat subsided, they turned to the 
door, but Mr. Peckover was not there. 
Those who saw him depart say that when 
he got to the foot of the stairs he took out 
his handkerchief and mopped his face, 
though it was not a warm day. 

A word in explanation. After Mr. 
Peckover had driven a square or two on 
his way home, it occurred to him that in 
the flurry of getting Stella out of the 
Work-house he had forgotten to pay over 
the two hundred dollars reward donated 
by George Somers. He had suggested 
that George ought to take the money and 
pay it to Stella himself. This George had 
positively declined to do. Mr. Peckover 
then hastened back to discharge the obli- 
gation and arrived on the scene at an aus- 
picious moment. He was so worked up 
over the scene that he abandoned the 
idea of saying anything about the money 
that day, but went directly home. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

Although Lucy Moorhead had resolved 
to play the coquette with George Somers, 
she began to see in him many good quali- 
ties that she had not seen before. In their 
brief interviews on former occasions she 
had admired more the external than the 
internal man. Every well-bred lady likes 
to see her favorite appear well in society. 
The more numerous her female acquaint- 
ances that admire him, the better, pro- 
vided the said biped of the masculine gen- 
der does not so deport himself as to excite 
that little demon, jealousy. I think I may 
lav it down as a rule of Cincinnati society 


62 


NO MONEY: 


that the lines of social distinction are not 
near so finely marked with reference to 
gentlemen as they are to ladies. Perhaps 
some reader with a head for statistics can 
solve the conundrum with eminent satis- 
faction to himself. ^ 

Lucy Moorhead saw, with true feminine 
shrewdness, that the first step would be to 
get him to attend church. This would 
smooth the way for his introduction to her 
set. It would do more — it would lull any 
scruples her father might have, for Elijah 
Moorhead was a wonderfully clannish sec- 
tarian. Impolite people would have called 
him pig-headed. The man who accepted 
his faith stood head and shoulders above 
all outsiders. The number of such illiberal 
Christians’ are diminishing in number each 
year. It was not surprising, therefore, 
that on the following Sabbath morning, 
as Lucy took her seat in her father’s pew, 
she cast a timid glance around to see if 
Mr. Somers had accepted her invitation. 
He was nowhere visible. 

The loud-mouthed organ pealed forth an 
anthem in thunder tones. The choir sang, 
and the preacher offered a voluminous sup- 
plication to the throne of grace ; then the 
choir sang again. During the singing of 
this last hymn, one of the ushers came 
down the aisle escorting a gentleman, and, 
strange to say, stopped at the head of Mr. 
Moorhead’s pew, as if looking for a va- 
cancy. Elijah looked up, and, recognizing 
George Somers, beckoned him to come in. 
George accepted the invitation, but blushed 
like a woman at finding* himself in Elijah 
Moorhead’s pew. 

Lucy, although taken aback, had suffi- 
cient command over her emotions to keep 
the blood measurably from her cheeks. 

Mr. Moorhead recognized Mr. Somers 
in a stately way, but Lucy was gracious 
enough to permit a half smile to part her 
pretty lips. Then there was a slight in- 
clination of all the young female heads 
Somersward, and many a little body in 
dimity asked itself who that handsome 
gentleman was in Elijah Moorhead’s pew. 
The minister’s wife sat in a front pew. 
These church committees, in letting oat 


the pews of a church, always reserve one 
for the minister’s wife, on the principle, 
we suppose, that she is the censor of the 
pulpit. The preliminary service having 
begun, the minis ter arose, and, with quiet 
dignity and earnest manner, began his 
sermon. 

Elijah Moorhead sat as straight and up- 
right as one of the cedars of Lebanon. 
His bald pate and side hair might have 
been mistaken by a drowsy worshipper for 
a plaster cast of some of the long line of 
distinguished dead. 

George Somers gave the minister hie 
undivided attention. Perhaps he felt a 
little mortified at one of the causes that 
had induced him to attend this particular 
church on this particular occasion. Be 
that as it may, there was not in that 1 arge 
congregation a more devout and attenti ve 
listener than George Somers . 

The minister was ever eloque nt, and 
never tedious. It seemed that “at his con- 
trol, despair and anguish fled the strug- 
gling soul.” 

We shall not repeat his sermon, but 
suffice it to say it was brief, lasting but 
thirty minutes. How our grand-sires 
would have grumbled at a sermon only 
thirty minues longl It would have been 
like selling them a yard of cloth and giv- 
ing them but a half. 

As soon as the congregation was dis- 
missed, Elijah Moorhead extended hia 
hand to George Somers. 

“I am really happy to see you at our 
church. I hope that, having found your 
way, you will come every Sabbath.” 

George thanked him politely and ex- 
pressed the hope that he might be bene- 
fitted by the ministrations of such an able 
shepherd. 

“That yon would, Mr. Somers, I tell 
you he gives us the true doctrine, none of 
your milk-and-water trash.” 

“I hope, Mr. Somers, that since you 
have come to our church, you will not for- 
get our mite society and, by the way, it 
meets at our house next Wednesday.” 
This from Lucy. 

“I shall be too happy to contribute my 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


63 


mite, and thank you kindly for the invita- 
tion.” 

‘‘It is not a party, you will please re- 
member, nor a reception either,” whisper- 
ed Lucy, “but a collection of our church 
folks. We all go very plain to these little 
gatherings.” 

George bowed acknowledgement. 

“We shall expect you without fail,” 
said Lucy, as she cast a soft glance into 
George’s honest face. 

“I shall be there.” 

All this little by-play occurred as they 
slowly pushed their way up the aisle at 
the heels of the audience. The latter 
part of it occurred at the carriage as Lucy 
and her father were on the point of step- 
ping in. 

George bowed himself away, and as the 
carriage rolled down the street he offered 
a mental benediction — a sort of blessing — 
on at least one of the occupants. He then 
turned and walked homeward, thinking as 
he went, not so much of the excellent ser- 
mon that had been showered over the con 
gregation, as of the sweet creature he had 
just left. His imagination magnified the 
awkwardness of his own position in per- 
mitting himself to be thrust, like a penny- 
collection box, into Elijah Moorhead’s 
pew. Under other and more favorable 
circumstances he would not have seriously 
objected, but just now, as he was visiting 
the church for the first time, and his con- 
science told him for what, it was ridicu- 
lous. At least that was the way it looked 
from his stand-point. But, with a strong 
effort of the will, he thrust aside this an- 
noying subject, and tried to think of the 
coming mite society meeting. Was he a 
fit person to be in a lady’s parlor in the 
presence of a large company of highly 
refined people? He could collar a ruffian 
and walk him off to the station-house, or 
he could quell a mob, but this dealing 
with the upper tendom, or'upper snobdem, 
was completely out of his line. 

We often do things for love that all the 
mules in Christendom could not kick us 
into doing under other circumstances. 
He half regretted his promise to go to the 


mite society, but now that he had made it 
he resolved to be as good as his precious 
word. 

The mite society will require a separate 
chapter. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

The excessive expense attending the 
giving of parties in our American cities 
has always been a subject of thought 
among prudent people. In the country it 
is different, the greater portion of the 
edibles furnished for the occasion come 
from the family larder, and are prepared 
by members of the household. But in 
cities the family who is doomed to the 
worry of giving a party must make elabor- 
ate preparation. 

The pastry must come from the estab- 
lishment of some noted confectioner ( at 
exhorbitant prices), and the flowers be 
culled from some florist’s green-house. 
The rooms must be prepared, music 
furnished, and many etceteras, that cost 
prodigiously. In view of these fa cts, the 
congregations of our western cities some 
years since imported the mite society. 
Whence came this migratory bird I know 
not; but here it means, in our American 
parlance, a cheap party. Yet while these 
parties are cheap, they are, in a small way 
a substitute for the New England tea-parties 
of half a century ago, and afford the same 
latitude for social gossip. 

George Somers seemed in such an 
anxious state of preparation for the few 
days prior to the meeting of the society 
that his mother felt constrained to ask the 
occasion of it all. George replied,* tha| 
he had been invited to a sort of party or 
as church folks termed it — a mite society 

“ By whom is it given ? ’’ 

“ It is to be at Moorhead’s this week.’ 
“Ah.” 

“ Yes, mother; and you know I have to 
appear in my best, as everybody will be 
well dressed.” 

“ Well, come in here before you go, and 
let me look you over.” 

“ Thank you, mother, I will, for I don’t 


64 


NO MONEY: 


want to look as if I had just jumped out of 
a duck’s nest.” 

George assorted his wardrobe, dressed, 
and came into the sitting room for inspec- 
tion. His mother ran her eye over him. 
‘‘Your cravat is awry, to begin with, and 
there is a long thread dangling from the 
back of your coat collar,” and she threw it 
away. “What have you in the breast 
pocket of your coat?’’ 

George thrust in his hand, and drew 
out a book. 

‘‘There, leave your book at home.” 

Mrs. Somers continued her criticisms. 

“ Have you a clean handkerchief in your 
pocket?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And your gloves ? ’’ 

“No,” and he ran and got them. 

“ There, I guess you will do now,” said 
his mother, admiringly. 

He kissed and thanked her, promising 
to return early, and then took his de- 
parture. Mrs. Somers felt reasonably 
proud of her son. 

Meanwhile Lucy Moorhead, even under 
a calm exterior, was a little nervous, lest 
her protege should not properly conduct 
himself in the presence of such a critical 
assembly. There was in her breast a sort 
of undefined fear that he would say or do 
something during the evening that would 
mortify her vanity. She had hazarded all, 
and she trusted to his good sense, not to 
shock the assembled aristocracy by any 
crudities offensive to the ritual of polite 
society. 

The large parlor was brilliantly lighted, 
and the guests began to drop in by twos 
and threes and fours. People, for the con- 
venience, left t heir carriages at home. 

Lucy eagerly watched and welcomed the 
arriving guests. ’ .She had a smile and a 
kind word for all. She began now to be a 
little nervous lest Mr. Somers would not 
come at all*, but her uneasiness was at 
length dispelled byithe appearance of our 
hero. She felt flattered by his elegant 
appearance, and gave him her hand with 
womanly grace. George took it, and bow- 
ed low. After he came back from the 


gentlemen’s dressing-room, Lucy in- 
troduced Mr. Somers to the company. She 
then more particularly introduced him to 
Mr. and Mrs. Norton, the minister and his 
wife, with the request that they would see 
that he did not lack for special introduc- 
tions to those present. 

Lucy could not have left him in better 
hands, and she knew it. Mr. Norton was 
one of those refined persons who could en- 
tertain without indulging in flippant con- 
versation. Mrs. Norton was her hus- 
band’s inferior in intellect, but was chat- 
ty and always agreeable. Under such 
tutorage. George’s natural timidity soon 
wore off, and he began to feel at ease. 

“I was pleased to see you in our oom 
gregation last Sabbath, Mr. Somers.” 

•‘Thank you. I was well repaid for go- 
ing, I assure you, sir.” 

Mr. Norton felt complimented, and ex- 
pressed the hope of seeing him present 
often. 

Then the conversation took a turn on 
some point of Mr. Norton’s sermon that 
involved the geography of Palestine, and 
from that to Roman history. Here George 
was perfectly at home. He had mastered 
“ Plutarch’s lives,” “ Josephus,” “ Julius 
Caesar,” and many other ancient works. 
Mr. Norton’s eye brightened at finding a 
young man who had stored his mind with 
such useful knowledge — it was such a 
rarity, you know. 

Mrs. Norton gabbled on until they got 
into Plutarch and Josephus, and then she 
found she was gradually being drawn be- 
yond her depth; so she prudently waded 
back to the shore and opened a tete-a-tete 
with a lady on her right. In the midst of 
this interesting conversation, Lucy came 
up, and laying a hand on Mr. Norton’s 
arm said, as if half offended: “There, Mr. 
Norton do you call this right. I put a 
gentleman under your charge to be intro- 
duced to the company, and you go and 
monopolize him yourself.” 

Mr. Norton smiled, and begged his fair 
hostess’s pardon for his remissness, and at 
once began to make the round, introducing 
Mr. Somers to each and every one present. 


AN ODD FELLOWS' STORY. 


65 


I doubt not that some gentle reader 
may ask why none of them knew Somers. 
That question would never be asked by a 
person who has long lived in a large city. 
Why, it is no' uncommon thing to live next 
door to a man for a year, and not know 
his name. 

There was a flutter among the fair sex 
and many a coy glance cast at the manly, 
handsome form of the policeman; and as 
he was introduced by Mr. Norton, he was 
considered all right. By “ all right ” was 
meant that he was a suitable person for 
such company. The gentlemen acknowl- 
edged the acquaintance with less formali- 
ty, but, if the truth must be told with great- 
er indifference. 

In vain may Charles Reade sneer at the 
petty spite existing between persons of the 
feminine gender; the indifference of one 
male to the existence of a rival is equally 
pitiable. 

They swung the circle at last, and if our 
hero had been hung and quartered for it 
the next moment, he could riot have re- 
membered the names of three ladies in the 
company. 

As Miss Morton was the last lady intro- 
duced, he sat down beside her and opened 
a conversation. 

Miss Morton was a tall lady — a very tall 
lady, who had sprung up like J«nah’s 
gourd, but as no lover had come she had 
begun to' wilt a little. She was on the 
centennial side of thirty and was voted 
horrid by the sprigs of the “ set. They 
slyly called her Aunt Julia, but always be- 
hind her back. She had passed the day 
of shilly-shally talk, and began to be com- 
panionable for a man of sense. Miss 
Morton was flattered by being transferred 
from a wall-flower to the center of gravity. 

George at once opened a conversation, 
and in a masterly way drew out Miss Morton. 
She. was a little indiflferent at first, but in 
less than five minutes she was attentive 
and then hung on his words. Miss Mor- 
ton was charmed beyond measure. He 
had come determined to make himself 
agreeable to every one, and he was suc- 
ceeding admirably. 


After a time there was a call for music^ 
and then what a wonderful sight of colds 
there werel Colds go through a company 
as the measels go through a neighborhood, 
but are impervious to sheep saffron. 

These stubborn colds that afflict young 
ladies when called to play the piano usually 
yield to the night air, and the mesmeric 
influence of the young gentleman that sees 
the young lady home. 

Lucy being unable to get a volunteer to 
go to the piano was compelled to advance 
on the mute music-box as a sort of forlorn 
hope. We have said before that she was 
no novice in music. But she had a sur- 
prise in waiting for the society. She 
meant to, bring out her protege, and was 
saving him like a rocket to be let off on 
a Fourth of July. After she had played a 
piece or two, she quietly glided over to 
Miss Morton with a “ please excuse me, 
Julia,” whispered to Somers, and he walk- 
ed with her to the piano. People held 
their breaths, for they knew not what coup 
d'etat was to come next. 

Lucy gave the key-note, and whispered 
the name of the piece to be sung. 

‘‘Ready,” whispered Lucy,' and lifted 
her voice; but George stood mute as a 
post. She sung a line and stopped. 
“ Why don’t you sing ? ” she whispered 
turning very red. George stamered an ex- 
cuse and said he was ready. The fact was 
that just as Lucy uttered the first note the 
fire-bell began to sound the alarm of fire, 
and he instinctively began to count. A 
matter of habit. The singing went on 
finely, and George’s fine tenor charmed 
every one, and Miss Morton in particular. 
After the music the plate was passed, a 
penny collection taken up. 

During this interesting performance, 
Miss Bundy whispered in Lucy’s ear: 

“ Mr. Somers and Aunt Julia Morton 
have fallen in love at first sight. It will 
be a match, I’m sure.” 

Lucy bit her lip as if half annoyed. Her 
little persecutor went on. 

“ I heard her invite him to call, and he 
accepted very heartily.” 

. Lucy excused herself 


66 


NO MONEY} 


The company broke up, and at parting, 
Lucy ventured to ask Mr. Somers to call 
again 

After they were all gone, Lucy sat down 
in the parlor to think. She was glad 
Somers had passed the trying ordeal so 
well; but it was a poor return, she thought, 
for her condescension and trouble, for him 
to fall in love with Julia Morton at first 
sight. She was a little jealous. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

The house in which Mrs. Gibbons and 
her little family had humble quarters, as 
we stated in the early pages of this story, 
was inhabited by other families besides 
her own. These tenement-houses are like 
omnibuses, they seem to expand and grow 
with each hew demand upon their capacity. 
To the eye of the greedy landlord they 
are never full. 

There were several families in the vari- 
ous rooms both above and below stairs, 
and old Annear had thought seriously of 
clearing the rubbish from the little damp 
cellar and letting it to some poor family 
at a moderate price. 

Among these various tenants was Mrs. 
Whalen, widow of John Whalen, whose 
death we noticed in our third chapter. 

Although no great length of time had 
elapsed since her husband had gone 
hence never to return, yet, after grieving 
a few days, she had dried her tears, and 
with philophic resignation accepted the 
situation, not as the decree of heaven, but 
as a matter of fact that she neither un- 
derstood nor cared to study. 

Whalen had been a lifetime drunkard, 
and by degrees his wife had come to look 
upon his weakness in about the same way 
that we regard any harmless eccentricity 
that fastens itself, barnacle like, upon the 
character of our associates. If Whalen 
had died of a fever, she would not have 
cherished his memory more reverently. 
When sober (which was seldom) he had 
some good traits, and these she marked to 
his credit in large figures, to be offset by 
any little peculiarities when toying with 


the bachanalian cup. To have intimated 
that John Whalen was not the pink of 
husbands would have put the woman in a 
phrenzy. The insult would have been 
mortal. The burden of supporting the 
family had not been increased by her hus- 
band’s death. It had rather been lessen- 
ed, inasmuch as she had one less mouth to 
feed. 

During his lifetime, Mr. Whalen had 
been a serious impediment to the social 
qualities of his wife. Her idea of enjoy- 
ment was to have a few intimate female 
friends gathered around a groaning boards 
and there eat and gossip. She had even 
attempted on several occasions to hold 
these little social reunions, but John had 
always managed to stumble in upon them 
roaring drunk and cast an icy mantle up- 
on these otherwise pleasant conclaves. 
She was therefore reluctantly compelled to 
give them up. Now that this social barri- 
er had been removed, Mrs. Whalen re- 
solved to call her friends about her once 
more and fulfill the long deferred hope of 
being qu^cu of the feast. She had there- 
fore prepared a dinner with extraordinary 
care. Her children had been dispatched 
to beg among the wealthy uptown families 
with a view lo presenting a variety that 
would tickle the olfactories and tempt the 
appetites of the invited guests. The hum- 
ble petition of these little dirt begrimmed 
faces was not without its reward, and like 
bees returning to the hive, each came 
laden with sweets of the green fields in 
which they labored. One child came 
with half a turkey, another with a portion 
of a goose and a plum pudding, and some 
pretzels, while yet another brought some 
cold corn beef and a head cheese. Thus 
by these gleanings from a number of 
tables, Mrs. Whalen was enabled to pre- 
pare a sumptuous repast, that while there 
was no surfeit of any one article yet afford- 
ed endless variety. 

Mrs. Whalen’s occupation of washer- 
woman enabled her to bedeck her own 
voluptous person in the habiliments of her 
wealthy patrons. She selected an elegant 
party dress of a Mrs. Dresher, that had 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


been sent her to be washed and be done 
up. Her large beet-like hands protruded 
from the sleeves of the splendid muslin 
garment, deepening the contrast of color, 
as well as adding to the strangely inappro- 
piate unfitness of combination. She had 
tied a finely embroidered handkerchief 
around her thick tawny neck. This dainty 
bit of linen in the delicate hands of Miss 
Meagher, had shot posioned arrows to the 
hearts of sundry gentlemen as she grace 
fully waved and flirted it along the public 
thoroughfares, To what base use had it 
come in wrapping the nOck of this heroine 
of the wash tubl 

Mrs. Whalen’s hose were of pure silk, 
borrowed like the rest for the'occasion. Silk 
hose and calf skin brogans were scarce in 
keeping, but she trusted to the ample skirts 
of her dress to hide the inequality. 

Thus arrayed Mrs. Whalen called her 
children about her. They were almost 
speechless at the changed appearance of 
their maternal relative. A little four-year- 
cld, in an ecstacy of delight, made a dive 
at his mother; but she waved him away 
with all the grandeur of a stage qneen dis- 
missing an apple boy, that had dared 
approach too near her royal highness. 
She gave her children a short but impres- 
sive lesson on “manners before guests,” 
and warned them that any infringements 
of these rules, would receive a well merited 
punishment the moment her visitors had 
departed. 

About this time the guests began to ar- 
rive until the number had increased to 
the number of four. This was the exact 
number that were expected to partake of 
Mrs. Whalen’s hospitality on the occasion. 
The dinner was on the table steaming 
hot, and the guests were invited to draw 
up and partake. The steam, as it arose 
from the savory viands, was snuffed by 
hungry nostrils that bore to their owners 
the indubitable evidence that the dinner 
was properly served. 

Reader, have you ever seen a queenlv 
woman preside at the table? Think not 
it is a place easily filled. How gracefully 
the lily hand lifts the steaming urn. 


Slightly depressing the spout the amber 
fluid rushes out in a tiny flood and forms a 
miniature Niagara, as it plunges down 
into the china receptacle. With what 
nice precision must the cup be filled? If 
too full there is no room for cream; if too 
little, there is suspicion of stinginess. 

These queens of the table know how to 
fill our cups as they do our hearts. Th^n 
this lady must have an eye for the comfort 
of the guests, for the great bear who sits 
atthe other end of the table, and whom 
society calls husband, usually has his 
mouth so full of food and has so much to 
talk about, that he is apt to be neglectful. 
It therefore remains for the queen to 
prompt him by calling his attention to 
things practical as well as hospitable. 

All hail to the queen of the tablel 

Such a queen was not Mrs. Whalen. 
She did the best she could, however, but 
the baggy sleeves of her elegant dress seri- 
ously interfered with the pouring of the 
tea. Then the children hung around the 
outskirts, like a pack of hungry wolves 
waiting for a camp to be deserted. These 
children toed an imaginary dead line, and 
if one ventured too near, a sharp repri- 
mand or an impressive wink from Mrs. 
Whalen caused the intruder to back 
away. 

The oldest girl held the youngest in her 
arms, and thus extremes met. The host- 
ess had not only to keep an eye on the 
comfort of her guests, but on the brats as 
well, to keep them back. With the tea 
and edibles came gossip, for be it, known 
that while the presence of ladies restrain 
excesses in men, the presence of the latter 
causes reticence of gossip among the for- 
mer. 

“I had expected one other guest present 
to-day, but she didn’t honor us with her 
presence it seems,” remarked the hostess. 

“Who?’’ asked Mrs. Benedict, whose 
mouth happened to be empty at the mo- 
ment, and therefore in the best condition 
for talking. 

“Mrs. Gibbons.** 

“Bah! she’s too high-toned to associate 
with the likes of ns/’ 


NO MONEY; 


es 

“Wonderful high-minded,” put in Mrs. 
Hall; “and to tell you the truth, I’ve seen 
an old chap calling there a little too often 
of late. It don’t speak well for Mrs. Gib- 
bons.” 

“Goodness graciousl” from two or 
three in chorus. 

“Yes,” continued Hall, “he give her a 
sewing machine not long ago. I know he 
has a decent family up town, the old sin- 
ner. I went by his house the other night 
and poked a note under the door telling 
his wife about some of his pranks down 
this way. Wouldn’t wonder if there’s 
trouble amongst ‘em when that was read.” 

“Won’t you get yourself in trouble?’’ 
asked the hostess. 

“ No, I guess not. Don’t think I’m 
afered of either Sal Gibbons or Stel Gib- 
bons, or the old sinner that comes there 
for no good. Who are these Gibbonses ? 
Hasn’t Stell just got out of the work’ us, 
sent up charged with shooting a man on 
Plum street ? Don’t think they have any 
reason to think themselves above us, their 
betters. But that is not all I’ve done. I' 
put notes under the doors of the houses up 
town where Sal Gibbons gets her work, 
telling ’em a few facts. Maybe they won’t 
get so much work to do as they used to.” 

Hall’s auditors were all ears ; but her 
words revealed such a vindictive spiiit 
and uncovered an action so mean and 
contemptible that they fell even upon the 
ignorant women like a clap of thunder 
from a clear sky. 

There was silence for a minute, then the 
hostess ventured to say : “ Well, I alius 

thought rather well of Mrs. Gibbone. She 
come in when my man was dyin’ and done 
what she could, and I’m not one to forget 
a favor.” 

Hall saw she had ventured a little too 
Ear in emptying the vials of her wrath, and 
began to draw in her horns. 

“ Well, everybody to their notion, but 
while these Gibbonses may not be as bad 
as some people say, they are not my style 
of folks.” 

There was another short pause, and 
then,— 


“ Pass your cups, ladies,” said the host- 
ess, smiling. 

The cups went up and came back brim- 
ming. 

“ You must be lonesome living here all 
alone,” said Mrs. Benedict. 

“Well, ’tis rather lonesome; but then 
I’ve the children, and they’re a comfort,’’ 
returned the hostess with a sigh. 

“ True enough, but then they do not 
supply the place of a good husband.” 

“ That’s a fact ;” a deeper sigh. 

“ If I were in your place I would set out 
and catch a good tnan.” 

“ Why, Mrs. Benedict ? ” 

“ There aint nothin’ wrong in getting 
married, is there ? ” 

“Well, no, not that I knows of.” 

“Then look around, and get a good 
man — one that’s able to work and take 
care of the children.” 

“ I don’t know what would be best, but 
I ’spose if I ever get another man he’ll not 
be equal to the last.’’ 

Thus the gossip wont on, and on and on; 
but, dear reader, imagination has pictured 
out this dialogue between you and I ; 

Reader — “Is this silly gossip to have no 
end ? Why do you detail it? ” 

Author — Because gossip displays the 
real character. We have no way of judg- 
ing of the contents of the brain save by 
the mouth and pen.” 

Reader — “ Then turn we away from 
such characters and tell us more of Stella 
Gibbons.’’ 

Author — “ That we shall do presently, 
since you have sounded the fog-horn, but 
first let us conclude this brief chapter, for 
it is of a likeness.” 

Reader — “So be it, then ; but pray be 
brief.’’ 

The sumptuous repast was ended, so far 
as the guests were concerned ; but no * 
sooner had they vacated the chairs than 
the children, no longer able to restrain 
their impatience, broke ranks and rushed 
in like a pack of jackals. The confusion 
was at first terrific ; but Mrs. Whalen laid 
about her with a will — a slap here, and a 
sharp reprimand there, soon restored order. 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


69 


The guests staid to gossip, but there 
was one woman in that little assembly re- 
solved to relate to Mrs. Gibbons what she 
had heard concerning the sending of notes 
to her customers. That woman was Mrs. 
Whalen. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Mrs. Gibbons found her business sud- 
denly declining after Stella’s return from 
the work-house. Stella had been received 
with coldness everywhere except at Elijah 
Moorhead’s. She had been told that 
there would be no more work at more 
places than one, and had the door slammed 
in her face by one of her mother’s best 
customers. These little indignities had 
been promptly reported to her mother. 

Unable to understand all this, Mrs. 
Gibbons had gone up to Elisha Moorhead’s 
and asked an explanation. Mrs. Moor- 
head laid before her what she deemed the 
reason for such unkind treatment. 

“There is a rumor going the rounds 
that Stella has served a sentence in the 
work-house for doing wrong.” 

“She was imprisoned for a few days, 
but for no wrong of hers. No sooner was 
the truth known and the case explained, 
than she was immediately liberated. If 
it would not worry you, I would be glad to 
tell you all, and thus vindicate my child 
from suspicion.” 

“Let me hear it by all means, for I 
feel an interest in your daughter.” 

Thus encouraged Mrs. Gibbons gave a 
detailed account of all that had occurred. 
During the recital Lucy was seen to weep, 
and even Mrs. Moorhead’s eyes were 
moist with tears. 

“Your daughter has had a truly narrow 
escape, and what she has suffered shall be 
remembered to her credit. We shall con- 
tinue to give you our work as usual.” 

“Thank you. Madam, and wo shall strive 
to merit your confidence.” 

“Now,” said Mrs. Moorhead, “since you 
have seen fit to make Lucy and I your 
confidants in this matter, I think it is but 
right that you should know that some one 


is laboring hard to injure joa. Do J(M 
suspect any one?” 

“None but this Annear.” 

“Think. Have you any rival in busi- 
ness? Have you offended any one?” 

“God knows I have not needlessly of- 
fended any one.” She paused to think. 

Mrs. Moorhead arose, went to a bureau, 
and took a paper from a drawer and hand- 
ed it to Mrs. Gibbons. 

With trembling hand and flushed cheek, 
she read the following scrawled upon a bit 
of paper: 

“Cincinnati, 18 — . 

“Mrs. Moorhead. — You must Excuse 
my impedense in writin, but i think it is 
dew you to kuo who you higher to do your 
work. 

“This woman Gibbons don’t bare a good 
Charackter Down where She lives. Her 
dawter is no better and has jist got out of 
the woorkhowse. Peeple is titterin about 
you big fokes hireu sich as they be. I 
only give you this news bekaws it may be 
for your good. ' Yours, Jane.” 

The paper fell from Mrs. Gibbons hand, 
and she arose like one stung by an adder. 
Her face was flushed, her eyes sparkled. 

“Madam, it you and Lucy believe this, 
the sooner I leave your house the better.” 

“Calm yourself, my dear woman, I 
shall show you how much I value that 
scrawl,” aud she caught it up from the 
floor and fed iwto the blaze in the grate. 
Mrs. Gibbons’ tears flowed at this mark of 
confidence. “God be praised for raising 
up friends to the poor,’’ she said between 
her sobs. 

“Think no more of this matter so far as 
we are concerned,” said Lucy. 

“I think it very likely that similar notes 
have been sent to all your customers,” sug- 
gested Mrs. Moorhead. “The hand that 
could write such a note as that would not 
stop at anything short of murder. Let it 
all pass now. You shall have our work, 
and I made up our minds to your inno- 
cence before we heard a word of explana- 
tion.” 

But for all this explanation Mrs. Gib- 
bons’ customers dropped away, and she 
found herself in straightened circum- 
stances. Stella had placed the two hun« 


rO NO MONEY: 


dred dollars that Mr. Peckover had given 
her in a savioga bank, and her mother de- 
clined to listen to any proposition to use 
it. “Save for a harder day/’ she would 
say, “for there is no telling but it may bo 
the means of saving our lives yet.’’ ' 

Mrs. Gibbons was one day looking 
through her large trunk for some article to 
put in pledge for a small sum of money to 
enable her to meet her rent. She could 
get the money from Mr. Peckover, but her 
pride was too great to acknowledge their 
poverty. 

Willie was a silent looker on as his 
mother laid out one article after another. 
There were several articles of wearing ap- 
parel that had been made for others and 
then refused on some frivolous pretext or 
other. She resolved to place some of 
these articles in pawn. The bottom of the 
trunk was reached, and Willie peering in 
saw some bright object shining as it lay 
half concealed. 

“Oh, mother, what is that?” he said, 
pointing to it with his finger. 

Mrs. Gibbons picked it up and looked a t 

it. 

It was three golden links. 

The links were entwined forming a min- 
iature chain with a pin attached. 

“That, my child, once belonged to your 
father. He used to wear it on the bosom 
of his shirt.” 

“Then give it to me, and I will wear it.” 

“Wear it and welcome, my child, and 
may yon be as proud of it as your father,” 
and she fastened the pin on the lappel of 
his little coat. 

Willie seemed to grow an inch as he 
walked back and forth admiring his golden 
treasure. 

Mrs. Gibbons finally selected a few arti- 
cles, and did them up in a neat package. 
Stella hesitaied to go with them, but the 
ease was urgent and she conquered her 
scruples. Willie wanted to go along, so 
she consented. They set out at once, and 
w<»re soon at the door of the Jew Benja- 
min. Three golden balls were suspended 
to notify the public that articles were ta- 
ken in pawn. 


Benjamin met them with a smile— a 
sympathetic smile — such as undertakers 
wear when collecting bills for services ren- 
dered at funerals. 

Stella’s face reddened at the thought of 
being in a pawn-broker’s shop, but Benja- 
min had seen faces mantled with shame, 
time and time again, so he paid no atten- 
tion to this mark of decaying fortune. 

“ Veil, Miss, what can I do for you ? ” 

Stella laid her package down on the 
counter. 

“We wish to pledge these articles fof 
some money, if you please.” 

“Veil, Miss, money is skeerce, and things 
don’t bring mooch, but let me see vat yon 
have.’* 

Stella undid the package, and rolled ont 
the contents. 

“ Dese weemen’s goods brings so leetle 
that we hardly vauts ’em,’’ and Benjamin 
eyed them critically. 

“ Well, I suppose we must go elesewhere 
and try,” returned Stella, beginning to fold 
them up again. 

“ Stop a leetle,” said Benjamin, placing 
one paw on the goods. 

“ Vat you want for ’em? How mooch?” 

“How much could you advance on 
them?” . 

“ Yawkup,” said the pawn-broker, turn- 
ing to the book-keeper, “ how mooch did 
dose dresses pring vat we sold last ? ” 

Jacob, thus appealed to fumbled among 
the leaves of the ledger and after making 
a calculation replied, Thirty cents 
apiece.” 

“You hears dot.” 

“We can get more than that for them 
at auction, so if you cannot loan us two 
dollars each on them, 1 will take them 
home.” 

“Two dollarsl Oh, my goodness, too 
mooch,” 

Stella began to roll up the package, 

“ I geeve dollar and feefty cent, and no 
more.” 

“ Two dollars, or nothing,” said Stella, 
firmly.” 

Veil, 1 takes ’em, but if you don’^ ro- 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


71 


deem ’em I’ll prake up. Yawkup, make 
out de teekets.” 

Benjamin paid over six dollars for the 
three dresses, but grumbling all the while, 
and uttering dismal forebodings as to the 
prospect of ever getting even again. As 
he handed Stella the tickets, his eye caught 
sight of the three links displayed on Willie’s 
coat. He started back and asked; 

“ Vere you get dat pin, my son ? ” 

“ It belonged to father, but he is dead, 
and so mother gave it to me.” 

‘‘Ah 1 ” and Benjamin stopped to study 
a moment, then taking out his pocket book 
he took therefrom a dollar note and hand- 
ed it to the child. 

“Dees is for the leetle Odd Fellow,” 
said Benjamin. Willie thanked him. 

A man who was standing at the back 
part of the room stepped up and said. 

“ Miss, I am a stranger to you, but my 
name is Calkins, I am a detective, and my 

office is No. Third street. If you 

should need any more money, call and I 
will see that you do not suffer.” 

Stella thanked them both, and took her 
departure. She noticed, however, that 
both men wore pins that were the 
counterpart of Willie’s What a wonderful 
influence had this little keep sake to open 
men’s hearts! Benjamin, who was hard 
at a bargain, and earned his money from 
the necessities of the impecunious, no 
sooner beheld this token than his heart 
opened to the genial ray of sympathy. 

It was not the first time that this Mystic 
Jewel had opened the hearts of men and 
broken down the barriers existing between 
wealth and poverty. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Lucy Moorhead scarcely knew her own 
heart. It was an enigma that she had 
seldom tried to solve. She was young and 
of a cheerful disposition. She enjoyed 
life, and had seldom given a thought to 
her own heart. But now a change was 
coming over her dreams — a ripple of love 
was agitating her placid existence. 


George Somers was a visitor at tbo 
house, and he had even escorted her once to 
the opera. When a lady assumes the role 
of a protector of young gentlemen, she 
prejudices the case in their favor. She 
was beginning to feel a deep interest in 
George Somers. His manliness, his deep- 
ly sympathetic nature, found an earnest 
response in her own. To be heartily loved 
without returning it, is unatural, and 
exists more in the imagination than in 
fact. 

Lucy therefore felt that she was loved 
by an honest, worthy man, yet there were 
social barriers between them that could 
only be crossed at a great bound. While 
she was seriously meditatin g this matter, 
George Somers’s heart was burning with 
a love he had never felt for any living 
mortal. He felt- that life without Lucy 
Moorhead would be a desert waste. He 
was all light and sunshine in her presence 
— dull and thoughtful in her absence. Yet 
he pored over his law books with a devotion 
worthy of a philosopher. For her he stored 
the dry unromantic pages of Blackstone 
and Greenleaf. He robbed himself of the 
hours of needed rest that he might make his 
debut at the bar with honor to himself and 
credit to her he loved as he loved his own 
soul. His cheeks grew paler and his eyes 
began to sink back at the unatural strain 
upon his physical and mental being. 

His instructor, while flattering him for 
great proficiency and his prospect for an 
early admission to the bar, told him plain- 
ly that he was studying too hard. In vain 
he urged him to be moderate. George 
was driven on by a powerful incentive, 
one that has driven many a man to noble 
deeds as well as to dark and bloody crimes. 

George Somers was not an indifferent 
spectator to the fact that Lucy Moorhead 
had other beaux beside himself — young 
men of great expectations who were 
skilled in the art of flattering women. Ev- 
ery smile that Lucy bestowed upon these 
rivals was a needle sent to his own heart, 
or, more properly, a poisoned arrow shot 
from Cupid’s bow. The case was growing 
desperate, and he felt that it would be 'S 


NO MONEY; 


ft 

relief to this torturing anxiety to know 
the worst. He had not even the old saw 
that there is sometimes luck in leisure ’’ 
before his eyes. 

While laboring under this sort of de- 
pression, he visited Lucy Moorhead, de- 
termined to know his fate. If she refused 
him, he would thrust her image out of his 
heart. He tTiought Lucy had never looked 
more beautiful than she did on that par- 
ticular evening. His spirits seemed to 
flag to such an extent that Lucy asked 
with some solicitude whether he was ill. 

“Yes, Miss Moorhead, I am ill; but 
not physically — it is a disease of the heart 
entirely. For weeks and months the dis- 
ease has been growing and fastening itself 
in my heart until I can not shake it off.” 

“ Is there no cure ? ” asked Lucy de- 
murely. 

“ Yes, there is a cure, Miss Moorhead. 
You are the sorceress that has the power 
to heal. I love you as no man ever loved 
a woman. Without you all would be 
darkness, with you, all is light and joy. 
Lucy (permit me to call you by that 
name), may I ever hope to be nearer to 
you than a friend? Say the one word 
that will make me happy for life.'^ 

Lucy had averted her face during this 
declaration, and as he paused, seemingly 
for an answer, she turned her eyes to his, 
and replied : 

“George, this can not be. You are 
worthy of a better wife than I. Abandon 
the idea of ever marrying me.** 

“ Oh, God ! ’’ he groaned, burying his 
face in his hands, “ this is more than I 
can bear.” Then arising, after he had 
become a little calmer, he continued; 
“But I will not remain longer in your 
presence lest I become unmanned.** 

Lucy started as she beheld his pale, 
haggard countenance transformed by his 
terrible grief. As he moved away she 
half relented ; but he did not even look 
into her sympathizing face. “ I hope we 
shall still be friends,” she said. 

“ Friends, Miss Moorhead, is a cold 
word,** 


“Be it so, then;, but I hope we do not 
part as enemies.*’ 

“ No, Miss Moorhead ; I could not hate 
you if I tried. But farewell. May yon 
find one that is more worthy of you than 
I. My prayers will be for your happiness. 
He took her hand at parting ; it trembled, 
and he clung to it as a drowning man 
clings to a straw, — then he left and, with 
bowed head, crept up the street toward his 
home. 

No sooner had he gone than Lucy threw 
herself down upon a sofa and burst into 
tears. She wept as though her heart 
would break. She reproached herself with 
causing misery to one whom she felt was 
worthy of her. She compared him with 
the silly gossips that had fluttered around 
her. He was so noble, so grand, even in 
his grief that her heart bled for him. But 
then, he proposed so suddenly, not even 
giving her time to think the matter over 
quietly and weigh the pros and cons. But, 
more than all this, his love was sincere. 
What woman does not wish to be loved 
ardently, devotedly ? Women feed on love 
— men on applause. 

He was gone now, she felt, never to re- 
turn. She had driven him away by her 
cold, indifferent refusal. For more than 
an hour she thus lay crying, and then she 
went to her room, but not to sleep. In the 
morning she excused herself from coming 
to breakfast. Her red eyes and haggard 
face told the tale of a night of misery. 

George Somers did not go home at first. 
He cared not whither he went. His 
face burned, and he felt feverish and sick 
at heart. He wandered on, with no ray of 
hope beaming upon him and bidding him 
not to despair. As he walked on, he 
passed a saloon. There were loud voices 
within. Should he stop and drown his 
sorrows in a glass of strong liquor? It 
was an eventful moment in his life. The 
tempter was tugging at him and singing 
her siren song in his ear. He paused and 
looked in. The bottles were arranged 
temptingly on a shelf behind a little cir- 
cular counter. A bar-keeper in his shirt- 
sleeves stood ready to serve out the vile 


AN ODD FELLOWS' 8TOBT. 


stuff to all who chose to imbibe. He hes- 
itated, but it was only momentary, and 
turned to go. Just at that moment two of 
the disputants within came to blows. At 
any other time he would have gone in and 
arrested them, but now he cared not. 
They could fight and beat each other to 
jelly if they chose to do so. Let the ofli- 
cers on that beat attend to their own cases. 
His bailiwick was Ward 6. 

Thus did he wander aimlessly about 
until the streaks of approaching day were 
beginning to brighten the eastern horizon. 
Then he went home. 

As he turned into the street two squares 
away, he was startled by hearing an en- 
gine in the neighborhood. He hurried on 
and the nearer he apy' reached the more 
his heart misgave him that something had 
happened. What at first had been an un- 
defined fear as he neared his home turned 
to reality. At last he stopped aghast. 
The house that had sheltered him 
from earliest infancy lay a smouldering 
mass of ruins. One engine only was 
playing upon the smoking, steaming de- 
bris. 

‘‘My God,’’ he exclaimed, as he beheld 
the devastation. He turned to the hose- 
man who guided the nozzle and asked: 

“Do you know how this house took 
fire?’’ 

“Well, no not exactly; but I heard Bill 
Martin say there was an explosion.” 

“An explosion? Heaven forbidi But 
do you know what became of the lady? 
I mean the one that lives here.” 

“No, I don’t; the 5’s beat us here. D — n 
’em, they’re getting awful smart of late. 
Didn’t used to be so.” 

Somers groaned. 

“You seem to take it to heart, sir.'* 

“Yes, the house was my mother’s, and 
she was alone.” 

“Ohl” 

“You say you don’t know where she 
went when the fire took place?’’ 

“No, I do not, but I suppose some of 
the neighbors might tell you; there was a 
big crowd here.” v 

George turned away; his own trouble 
had sunk under this greater affliction. 


fS 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

Filled with apprehension for the safety 
of his mother, Somers began rousing the 
neighbors in searching for her. He was 
fortunate in finding her at the second 
house where he made inquiry. His 
mother was on intimate terms with the 
family, and they had kindly taken her in. 
She was not seriously injured, but was 
suffering from a sprained ankle contracted 
while hastening down stairs to leave the 
burning house. 

She related the whole occurrence as 
follows; We give her own words; 

“After your departure, I felt a little 
lonely, and thought I could find some con- 
solation in reading. Jane, the maid of 
all work, had finished her ironing in the 
kitchen, so I told her if she was not too 
tired and chose to set up awhile, I would 
read to her out of ‘Pilgrim’s Progress.’ 
You know she so loves the book. She 
gladly assented. I read perhaps for half 
an hour, when she stopped me with the 
remark that the gas was escaping some- 
where.* She lighted a bit ’ of paper, and 
tried around the gas pipe that feeds the 
burner in my room, but found it all tight. 
As the gas smell seemed to increase, she 
lighted a small hand lamp and expressed 
her intention of finding the leak. I heard 
her walking around in the kitchen and 
then in the dining room and parlor. After 
this I heard her open the cellar door, and 
then came an explosion that shook the 
house to its very foundation. I heard 
Jane scream, and I ran down stairs, and 
in my haste slipped, spraining my ankle. 
The poor girl’s hair and eye-brows were 
singed, and she stood speechless with 
fright at what had occurred. 

“It was not long before the smoke began 
to curl up the cellar stairway, and in two 
minutes we heard the flames hissing and 
crackling among those shavings you put 
there last summer.” 

George groaned and muttered an impre- 
cation at his own carelessness.’’ 

“Well, it was not long before we heard 
the cry of fire on the street, and with 
Jane’s aid I succeeded in getting out j«9t 


NO MONEY 


T4 

as the flames began to dart up the stair- 
way into the dining-room. The girl, after 
seeing me safe out of the house, ran back 
and succeeded in getting out the greater 
portion of our clothing. About this time 
I heard the alarm of fire sounded* The 
engines came quickly, but the delay in 
turning in the alarm proved fatal to the 
building. Ere the engines got their steam 
up and the pipemen their hose laid, the 
flames had run up both stairways, and 
were sending out long tongues of flame 
from both front and rear windows. The 
house was burnt to a shell before a drop 
of water had touched it. A great crowd 
had gathered, and I was almost carried off 
my feet by the press of the throng. The 
walls crumbled and fell inward. I could 
look no more. Mr. Jones invited me to 
his house, and I accepted. Under the ex- 
citement I scarce felt the pain, but no 
sooner was it over than it hurt me severe- 
ly. A physician was sent for, who attend- 
ed my wound, and now I am feeling com- 
fortable.” 

“I am glad of that. But where is Jane, 
for I would not that harm should come to 
her after what she has done for us.” 

“She has gone home. You know she 
only lives a couple of squares away.’* 

“Very true; I had forgotten.” 

“She will be here this morning, I’ll war- 
rant you.” 

After a pause, George saidi 

“Well, mother, the old home is gone, 
and although both house and furniture 
were insured to their full value, yet I am 
sorry to lose it. It had many pleasant 
memories associated with it. Its solid 
walls protected my childhood years. But 
thank God, you are left me yet.” 

Mrs. Somers’s eye brightened at the 
words of affection. 

“ And I have reason to be thankful that 
God has given me such a son. What is 
the loss of a palace compared with the 
loss of a child? Oh, George, a hundred 
houses might burn over our heads, but so 
long as you are left me 1 shall be satisfied.” 

“Mother, I know you are wondering 
why T was not present at the fire last even- 


ing. I will tell you in gdod tihae; so rest 

easy on that score — ray explanation will 
be satisfactory. Now I know you need 
rest and sleep after the excitement of last 
night, so I will go to a hotel until I can 
procure another house. Rest quief and I 
will return and see you in a few hours at 
furthest.” He then kissed his mother and 
took his departure. 

The morning papers chronicled the ex- 
plosion and burning of Mrs. Somers’s 
residence with appropriate head-lines. 

As Lucy Moorhead came down stairs 
the morning following her rejection of 
Somers, she took up the Co....mercial, and 
her eye caught the startling head-lines 
directly. She read, and, as she read, she 
turned paler than she really was. In half 
an hour she asked the coachman to drive 
around to the frontdoor, as she desired to 
take an airing. 

John, ever ready to oblige his young 
mistress, soon had the bays in the carri- 
age, and was waiting at the place designa- 
ted. Lucy hastily made her toilet, and 
came out and sprang into the carriage. 
“ Where shall I drive first?” inquired the 
obsequious John as he closed the door and 
turned the latch. 

I wish to see where the fire was last 
night.” 

She gave him the location. John had 
once before driven her to that locality. 
He had seen a young gentleman escorting 
her along the street as she returned. He 
began to put this and that together. These 
servants are paid for their services and 
not for their opinions; so John kept his 
own counsels. 

Mountiriir to his seat, the coachman 
clucked to the sleek span of horses, and 
they sprang nimbly over the bouldered 
street, their iron-shod hoofs making the 
fire fly as they drew the precious burden. 

A few minutes drive brought them to 
the location of the ruins. Lucy told 
John to draw the reins that she might 
look. As she sat there on the cushioned 
seat, wondering whither the family had 
gone, and if any one had been injured, she 
heard footsteps coming down the street. 


AN ODD FELLOWS* STOBT. 


The man passed by the carriage with- 
out looking at its occupant, paused to look 
at the ruins, and then went slowly on. 

It was George Somers. Lhcy had ex- 
pected some sort of recognition; but he 
did not deign to notice her existence. Her 
pride was touched, but perhaps his afflic- 
tion had caused him to forget everything 
else. She began making excuses for 
him. And then his face looked so haggard 
and worn, she scarcely recognized him. 
Had he approached her the evening 
before according to her own ideas, she 
felt that she would have yielded; but he 
had rushed on her so suddenly that she 
refused, ere she had time to consider his 
offer. 

But, alas! he was gone now, and she 
more than half expected that this haggard 
look was not all the result of losing his 
home. She began to realize how desper- 
ately he had loved her. The love that 
could distort a face like that in a single 
night, was it not worth having? Aye, a 
love like that, she felt, would have endured 
to the shadow of the grave. She sighed 
heavily, and ordered John to drive on. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

Now turn we back to the humble tene 
ment-house with its many occupants. Mrs. 
Whalen, true to her promise, had gone to 
Mrs. Gibbons with her budget of dinner- 
table gossip. She had unfolded it bit by 
bit, until the poor woman was racked by 
the torture of uncertainty, until she was 
ready to cry out in mental agony. Mrs. 
Gibbons dared not reveal to her torturer 
that she knew of the sending of these 
tattling slips of paper, lest her informant 
should withhold the name of the writer. 

At last unable to restrain her curiosity 
longer, she asked Mrs. Whalen who could 
have sent such an infamous story to her 
customers? 

“ Well, I don’t know that I ought to 
tell,'’ replied Mrs. Whalen, with well- 
feigned discretion. 

“ What, not tell me the author, after 
telling me such a hideous story ? ** 


T6 ‘ 

“ Wdll, I suppose I must; but I don’t do 
it for the purpose of creating hard feelings 
between my neighbors. It was Mrs. Hall 
that did the business,” 

“ And the motive ?” 

“ Laws ! I don’t know, unless it was 
because she thinks you hold your head a 
little too high.” 

“ The miserable villifier 1 May she re- 
ceive the sentence of a just God for the 
crime of Ananias I I hope. Madam, that 
you do not share with this pitiful slanderer 
her unjust suspicions?” she asked, turn- 
ing abruptly to Mrs. Whalen. 

“ Well, I don’t know, things do look a 
little suspicious like ’’ — 

Mrs. Gibbons seemed to grow in height 
as she said; Mrs. Whalen, you leave this 
room at once, and never let me see you in 
it again. I desire you to go immediately.” 

Mrs. Whalen sprang up with the 
venom of a tiger flashing in her eyes. 

“ You order me out of your room ! You, 
who are no better than you should be 1 It 
has come to a pretty pass, that people 
can’t be told of their faults without their 
flying in your face.” 

“ Will you go, or shall I call the police 
to arrest you? ” 

“ Yes, I’ll go,” and she sailed away. 
“But I’ll call the landlord’s attention to 
the carrying on in this house. It’s a pretty 
out, that decent people have to be insulted 
by those as isn’t.” This last sentence was 
uttered as she raged along the hall in the 
direction of her own dingy room. 

Mrs. Gibbons closed the door and paced 
the floor. Her blood was at fever heat. 
Was it possible for poor people to escape 
suspicion? Luckily she was alone, as she 
would not have her children witness the 
scene that had just been enacted. Gradu- 
ally her wrath went down until she was 
herself again. Then, like most people 
who lose their temper, she felt sad and 
dejected. 

The reaction that follows great anger is 
never pleasant. The brain is over stimu- 
lated, and nature, the tyrant, demands the 
forfeit of the offended law. She reproached 
herself with being too hasty in allowing 


76 


NO MONEY? 


her temper to become the master. She 
had perhaps driven away a neighbor, 
when a few words might have explained it 

all. 

Mr. Peckover, the lodge trustee; con- 
tinued his visits to the family, but Mrs. 
Gibbons began to receive him more coolly 
than on former occasions. She was 
smarting under the taunts of her neighbors, 
and well did she know that their lynx eyes 
ware watching her every motion. They 
mentally noted each incoming and out- 
going of the venerable trustee. A few 
words would have explained it all, but she 
deigned not to satisfy their curiosity. 

Mr. Peckover had some hint from his 
wife that Mrs. Gibbons was losing all her 
customers, and urged the more to send 
her all the work he could. He became 
more pressing in his offers of money; but 
after all that had been said, the poor 
woman declined to take the money. How- 
ever, loads of coal were dumped in to the 
cellar, and the bills came to her receipted, 
and she inwardly thanked the Order for 
their noble devotion to her in this hour of 
need. 

Stella’s experience at 1 he pawn-broker’s 
had made a deep impression on the mother, 
as it had upon the daughter. It had 
shown her that there was a mysterious and 
deeply sympathetic bond uniting this 
mysterious brotherhood — a sympathy that 
survived the grave. 

Spring was yielding to summer, and 
Mrs. Gibbons accompanied by her daughter 
and son, paid a visit to Spring Grove 
Cemetery, that magnificent city of the 
dead. 

They went to visit the grave of the dear 
father and husband that quietly slumbered 
there. Although too young to remember 
his father, yet Willie always enjoyed these 
visits to this magnificent place. The beau- 
tiful green grass, the trees, the tall shafts 
rising from the green sward, and the grace- 
ful swans floating on the lake, were all 
sources of delight. • To Mrs. Gibbons and 
Stella the place seemed another Eden. 
As they drew near, with bowed heads and 
reverent mien, to the sacred spot where 


the dear father slept, Stella caught her 
mother’s arm with a convulsive grasp as 
she pointed to the grave. 

Mrs. Gibbons lifted her eyes, and beheld 
a neat tombstone at the head of her hus- 
band’s grave. They approached, and 
read the name graven upon the pure 
Italian slab. 

The mother looked at the daughter with 
tears in her eyes. Stella could restrain 
her feelings no longer, but began to sob. 
Let us kneel down here, and ask God to 
bless the hands of the good people who 
have raised this monument to our beloved 
dead. They both knelt down, and Willie 
with them, and silently poured out their 
souls to him who watcheth the sparrow as 
it falls-the Great Ruler of the Universe and 
the giver of every good and true blessing. 
When they had done this, they arose and 
stood in silence, looking at the grave. No 
question was asked as to who it was who 
had been thus thoughtful of the deceased. 
Their hearts and instincts told them it 
was the same hand that had given them 
the sewing-machine and the fuel; the same 
that had stood by them when the poor girl 
was in prison and without friends. 

This mysterious brotherhood, unasked, 
had gone forth and planted a mark at the 
grave of him who had gone before. Oh, 
glorious Order, that succors the living and 
crowns the dead with immortelle 1 Death 
may rob us of those we love most dear on 
earth, but it hath no power to rob us of the 
sweet memories of their virtues. The trio 
turned away at last, but cast lingering looks 
behind. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

The love that is earnest is faithful. It 
may meet rebufls at every turn, but it does 
not wholly die. It is this unquenchable 
love that lifts a man up from his fallen 
condition and brings him a little nearer 
the angels that plume their wings in the 
golden realms of Paradise. The love that 
a noble man feels for a pure woman is a 
counterpart of that which we should feel 
for the God that made us. It is this love 
that makes nobler men and women. 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


n 


George Somers took his refusal sadly. 
Some would have cursed the race of 
womankind. Not so with our hero. Ev- 
ery impulse was that erf' a gentleman in 
the full control of his senses. He moped 
a little, however, he bowed to the stroke as 
the tall tree bows, but does not break. 

Lucy was the chief of all womankind 
in his estimation. He compared others 
by her standard, but they were found 
wanting. 

Yet for all this partiality of George 
Somers, there are hundreds and thou- 
sands of young ladies in the world (some 
of them reading this story now) that are 
just as handsome and just as good as Lucy 
Moorhead. 

He did not say to himself I will never 
marry, but felt as though he could never 
love another with the same ardor that he 
had Lucy. 

He performed his duties as a policeman 
with the usual alacrity; for, thought he, 

am working for the city, and they have 
no interest in my private affairs. They 
pay me to do my duty, and I must.” 

Mrs. Somers had recovered from the 
sprained ankle she had suffered on the 
night of the fire, and they had rented a 
house as a temporary residence until they 
could procure or build one suited to their 
ideas. 

Mrs. Somers, with a mother’s eye, had 
noted the change in George’s manner — 
not that he was less kind or less attentive 
to her wants, but there was a languor 
about his movements, a sadness shadowed 
on his countenance that was not used to 
rest there. Then he was thoughtful in her 
presence — unusually so, she believed. He 
would read awhile, then his book would 
go down, until it rested on his knees. His 
eyes would stare into vacancy for a long 
time. Then his mind would come back 
from its wanderings, and with a sigh he 
would again pick it 'up and pore over its 
pages. His mother was led to suspect the 
real cause in this wise: A few weeks ago 
he was full of Lucy Moorhead. She did 
this or she said that; but now he never so 
much as mentions her name. The subject 


was a delicate one, but Mrs. Somers 
thought she might venture upon it, and if 
he manifested symptoms of repugnance 
she would drop it forever. 

One evening they were sitting in the 
parlor — George studying and thinking and 
sighing by turns. 

“My son,” began Mrs. Somers , “you are 
in trouble. Why not take me into your 
confidence? Perhaps I might help you 
out; who knows?” 

“It would be a pity to bother you, moth- 
er, with an insignificant affair.” 

“It can not be such a small trouble, 
George; for you are not apt to be annoyed 
by trifles.” 

“You are right, mother, but what might 
seem of great importance to me, viewed in 
another light would appear a trivial mat- 
ter.’’ 

“That is yet to be tried as between you 
and I; but I feel that this trouble relates to 
Lucy Moorhead. Would it not be right 
and proper to tell me? I am a woman, 
and know woman’s ways better than you.” 

This was hitting the mark in the center, 
and George turned and looked at his 
mother with wonder written over all his 
face. 

“You guess well, dear mother, and I am 
compelled to acknowledge that you are 
right.” 

“I knew it. Now come, make a clean 
breast of it; for if I am to help you out 
of this slough of despond I must know all 
of the facts.” 

“I am beginning to think you would 
make a good lawyer, mother. But to the 
subject. I will briefly state the case;” 

“When I visited Mr. Moorhead’s, at his 
own request, I fell in love — yes, to use a 
mild term — desperately in love with Miss 
Lucy. It was a great piece of assurance 
on my part; but I could not help it. She 
did not repulse me at first, as I had reaso n 
to expect; but, as I imagined, rather en- 
couraged; and so, like a silly goose, I went 
on to my fate. 

“Well, to make a long story short, I 
paid my respects to her, and became so in* 


78 


NO MONEY; 


fatuated that, in a thoughtless moment, I 
proposed and was rejected.” 

‘‘As you richly deserved to be*** 

“Mother.” 

“My son.” 

“Why do you say that I deserved to be 

rejected?” 

“If for no other reason — to use your own 
words — because you were so foolish as to 
fall in love with her. But, to be candid, 
do you think you would court and marry a 
girl of Lucy Moorhead’s sense in three 
months from first acquaintance?” 

“I don’t know,” rather doggedly. 

“Yet you do know. Your father and I 
were engaged a year before we were mar- 
ried. If he had come at me with a propo- 
sal three months after I first saw him, 
your name would probably have been 
George Smith or something else.” 

Somers laughed at the idea. 

“I suppose you went at her 
just as you would at a culprit 
that had violated the law, or 
mayhap you told her an awful snake story 
by way of prelude, and then when you had 
her scared half to death, you jumped at 
her crying boo, boo, won’t you marry me.” 

“Oh, mother, this is all nonsense.” 

“No such thing. You great men who 
have the stiength to Ibll an ox are afraid 
of a little piece of flesh and blood in dim- 
ity. Now tell me, were you not greatly 
excited and scarcely knew what you were 
saying?” 

‘‘There is more truth than poetry in 
your words.” 

“I thought so; perspired freely, one 
handkerchief scarcely enough to mop your 
burning forehead?’’ 

“Mother you are making light of a seri- 
ous subject.” 

“ 1 had no intention of doing so. Now, 
just put yourself in Miss Moorhead’s place, 
and behold a young man come to lay siege 
to your heart. You admire him, but 
while you are trying to make up your 
mind whether you love him or not, he 
suddenly gets jealous, lest some other 
chap will come in and snap you up, and 


rushes at you with a proposal. Would 
you not do as she has done ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” 

“ Yes, you do knoV, Now answer me 
like a man.” 

“ Well, I think I would.” 

“There, I have cleared Miss Moorhead 
of any blame ; now I will take up your 
case. I once saw Miss Moorhead here, 
and I noticed that she regarded you with 
friendship at least, and that is the first 
stepping-stone to her affections. She was 
willing for you to call on her at home, and 
even to escort her to parties ; and that 
was the second. She called here ostensi- 
bly to inquire the way to Mrs. Gibbons’s, 
but more likely to ascertain what were 
your connections.” 

“ Mother, I shall hate Lucy Moorhead 
presently.” 

“No danger of that. Well, you were on 
your way to her affections, climbing up, as 
it were to the level on which she stood. 
You were getting on well enough, but you 
were not content to let well enough alone, 
but must clear the intervening steps at a 
single bound, and so lost all, or at least 
put yourself back just where you started 
from. 

Never to return.” 

“Nonsense. Go to work now like a 
man, and be guided by the experience of 
the past. Build slowly but surety — don’t 
run before you can walk. Learn that a 
woman likes to be courted. Marriage is 
the great event of a woman’s life. If she 
marries well, her happiness is secured ; if 
badly, her misery is likewise assured.’’ 

“ You talk like a philosopher.” 

“ I hope not, for philosophy is often a 
mere theory that is impracticable ; but I 
do hope that I talk common sense.” 

“ Yes, but having refused me, why, as a 
matter of course, that ends it.*’ 

“ Suppose you were commanding a ship, 
and an enemy should send one shot clean 
through the vessel, making the splinters 
fly, but doing no serious damage ; would 
you strike your flag and surrender like a 
coward ? ” 

“ Of course not,** 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STOEY. 


** Now, because you get a little slap in 
the face by a pret'.y hand for being a little 
too hasty, you prop .'6 to give up the race. 
You are easily discouraged. _Ohl if I 
were a man, with my knowledge of wo- 
man’s ways, I think I could woo a queen 
successfully.” 

Now, good mother, since you have 
given a diagnosis of the disease, please 
ofier a prescription.” 

“Nature aud common sense ought to 
suggest a remedy. In the meantime keep 
quiet, and if you meet Miss Moorhead on 
the street or elsewhere, treat her as pleas- 
antly as if nothing had happened. What- 
ever you do, manifest no symptoms of an- 
noyance at your rejection. Go into soci- 
ety — yes, into the very society into which 
she has introduced you. In a word, be a 
gentleman, and bide your time and oppor- 
tunity. But, bless me, here comes Stella 
Gibbons, all smiles. It is really a pleas- 
ure to see her sweet face. What a good 
wife she would make a man ! ” 

Stella came in, and was greeted warmly 
by both mother and son. After chatting 
pleasantly for a little time, George excused 
himself and went down town. He wanted 
to be alone and think over what his mother 
had said. Her last remark lingered in his 
ears. “ What a good wife she would make 
a man 1 ” He had always admired her, 
but could he love her while Lucy Moor- 
head stood in the way? That was the 
question. 

After George had gone, Mrs. Somers 
asked Stella whether she visited Lucy 
Moorhead now. 

“ I only go there when called upon to do 
so. Lucy seems so down-hearted of late.’’ 

“ Indeed 1 how long has she been in 
that condition?” 

“ Oh, only a few weeks. I thought she 
was ill, and ventured to put the question to 
her one day. She said, ‘ not ill,’ but I saw 
the tears in her eyes. Then I knew she 
must be in trouble. How I wished to know 
what it was all about. I was sure I could 
sympathize with her, but I dared not ask. 
One day she told me all, and then cried 
as if her heart would break j and poor me. 


79 

1 cried too. If there is an angel on earth, 
Lucy is one.” 

“ But the trouble.” 

“ I promised Miss Lucy never to tell a 
living mortal.” 

“Then, my child, be as good as your 
promise.” 

“ That I will, for I would rather die than 
betray such a sacred trust..’ 

Mrs. Somers admired Stella more than 
ever, yet she had her own opinion of Lu- 
cy’s trouble. She surmised that Stella had 
heard one side and she the other of the 
same story. 

* CHAPTER XXIX. 

One evening not long after the conversa- 
tion reported in the last chapter, George 
Somers went to Hammond street to report 
for duty. As he neared the station he con- 
sulted his watch and found that it wanted 
an hour of roll-call; so, to occupy the time, 
he strolled up town. On the corner of 
Eighth and Sycamore he met Jeff Wilson 
coming down. They stopped to exchange 
a few words, as partners on the same beat 
are almost sure to do when they are off 
duty. 

They had talked perhaps five minutes, 
when they heard a great racket up the 
street. They both turned and looked, and 
saw a span of horses coming down at a 
furious pace, with a carriage al their heels. 
Their iron-shod hoofs made the fire fly 
from the boulders as they clattered on. 

The driver sat pale as a ghost. He had 
tugged at the lines; but as well might he 
have tried to curb the hurricane. He had 
lost all control over the frightened animals. 
The policemen took all this in much quick- 
er than it can be written. 

Wilson feared for the occupants, and 
wished he had the power to save them 
from destruction. With George Somers 
to think was to act, and no sooner did he 
seethe carriage approach than he ran out 
near the middle of the street. When they 
came within twenty-five yards, he starte d 
and ran his best in the same direction . 
Of course they gained rapidly upon him, 


80 


NO MONEY; 


and as they passed he seized the near horse 
by the bit. Running as he was, the shock 
was not so violent as would have been had 
he stood still and attempted to seize the 
flying team. But the shock was sufficiently 
violent to oarry him oflF his feet, and swing 
him round against the horse’s side. He 
felt a sharp pain in one of his legs near 
the foot, but he held on with the tenacity 
of a bull dog. His weight on the bit had 
but little effect at first upon the hard- 
mouthed animal. But after the distance 
of a square had been passed, it began to 
tell. The driver plucked up courage, 
and seeing the leader so effectually muz- 
zled he put his whole weight on the 
other line. Finally the speed of the 
team began to lessen, and from a furious 
gallop they broke down to a trot. A 
drayman caught the off horse, and the 
team was brought to a stand-still, though 
trembliug with fear and excitement. 
Somers, seeing the danger over, released 
hisholdonthe bit and endeavored to step 
aside, but fell fainting to the ground. An 
immense crowa had gathered, and with the 
senselessness of such a throng drawn from 
curiosity alone, were pressing around the 
carriage until they threatened to tramp the 
wounded hero. Just at this moment Jeff 
Wilson came up puffi ng and blowing from 
excereise, for he bad run hard in his effort 
to keep the vehicle in sight. He elbowed 
the crowd right and left, until he reached 
his mate. 

‘‘ Stand back gentlemen,” he cried “ do 
you want to trample a wounded man to 
death ? ” The crowd gave back a little. 
Three or four other policemen coming up 
on the instant, they pushed the crowd back 
and made a circle around the carriage. A 
young lady had alighted, and stood a 
trembling, frightened spectator of the 
scene. Two or three present recognized 
her as Lucy Moorhead, and went to her 
assistance. 

“ Let us take him to the hospital/’ sug- 
gested some one referring fo Somers. 

Bring him to our house, it is near by/’ 
said Lucy. 

Better take him home,” said Wilson. 


“ Gentlemen, be kind enough to oblige 
me by bringing him with me. He has 
saved my life, and if he is not already dead 
I will answer for his care.’* 

She blushed to make such a ^ speech 
before so large an audience, bat the case 
seemed urgent. 

This settled the question, and the 
policemen gathered up the unconscious 
man and bore him along, followed by 
the throng. 

Lucy turned to one of the gentlemen 
and asked him for his arm. The pro- 
cession moved, and at last reached the 
residence of Elijah Moorhead. Lucy 
hastened in, and the others moved more 
slowly. Her father came to the door, 
and in a few words she told him what 
had happened. Then Elijah headed the 
procession, and led them to a bed-room, 
where the policemen put down their 
burden. The crowd was filing into the 
yard, when one of the policemen went 
out and drove them away. Only a few 
newsboys hung on the iron fence, 
hoping to have their curiosity further 
gratified. 

A surgeon was sent for post-haste, 
and he came and began an examination. 
He looked Somers over as a good house- 
wife would axamine a garment she de- 
sires to mend. After he had gone through 
with his professional examination he 
said; Leg broken near ankle joint; 
badly bruised in back; wrist consider- 
ably wrenched; unconscious from exhaoa- ' 
tion.” 

The surgeon set diligently to work to 
set the bone first. Then he applied him- 
self to the task of bringing the patient 
back to consciousness. 

The policemen now departed, as it was 
time for them to go on duty. Lucy was 
present, and did many little things for the 
patient’s comfort, such as smoothing the 
pillows and holding the basin while the 
surgeon sponged his face. While they still 
worked the door-bell rang, and, half an- 
noyed, Lucy went to answer it. Two gen- 
tlemen stood on the stoop. They were 
oui/u latrangers. 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


81 


‘*We called to inquire after Mr. 
Somers,” said one of them. 

“You are friends of his?” asked Lucy. 

“Certainly, we belong to the same 
lodge. We come in fullfillment of a duty 
to watch by the sick-bed of our brethren.” 

‘‘But suppose I should say that I had 
taken that contract.” ' 

Jim Armacost, the speaker, smiled as he 
replied; “If Somers is much hurt it 
would be a large contract for a lady.” 

Lucy felt half angry at this outside in- 
terference; but she invited the men into 
the reception-room to consult with her 
father and the surgeon. 

The man of saws and lancets replied to 
her inquiry: 

“Yes, you would kill him with kindness. 
No, let the men care for him at night, and 
you can sit and watch him in daytime, if 
you like.” 

Lucy consented to this arrangement, 
and the watchers were invited in. The 
doctor gave his directions, concluding as 
follows; “I know that you are anxious to 
know whether he will recover or not, and 
I will not deny that his case is critical.’’ 

The tears started in Lucy’s eyes. 

“But if there are no internal injuries 
and we can bring him back to conscious- 
ness by noon to-morrow, he has a chance 
of recovery. Good nursing is what he 
need; for I doubt not that his nervous 
system has suffered a shock equal to that 
of his body.” 

Just at this point Mrs. Somers arrived, 
and in great agony was proceeding to 
throw herself upon her son, supposing him 
to be dead. She had been told so by the 
bearer of the news. The doctor gently re- 
strained her. “Be quiet madam, if you 
value your son’s life.” The good woman 
sank into a chair, and inwardly thanked 
God that he was not dead. The man of 
medicine took his leave. At nine o clock 
the family retired, leaving the watchers 
alone with the patient. Mrs. Somers 
would fain have remained.by her son’s bed- 
side, but she was persuaded against her 
will to retire. 

It is a severe task to men who wprk hard 


all day to watch all night, but bound to- 
gether by the indissoluble links of friend- 
ship, love and truth, they cheerfully per- 
form this sacred duty. Men are not gos • 
sips generally, but on occasions like the 
one named above they must talk to keep 
awake. 

They discussed the matter of the runa- 
way in all its bearings, and praised the 
courage of Somers in trying to stop the 
team and save human life. A hundred 
men would have thrown up their arms and 
tried to frighten the horses into stopping 
of their own accord, and then, when that 
did no good, stand aside and let them go. 
Our hero had adopted a bolder course, 
and succeeded, though with great injury to 
himself. The watchers having each given 
his own observations in catching runaway 
horses, the subject changed. 

Jim Armacost, one of the watchers, is a 
character so well known in Cincinnati 
that he scarce needs a word of either 
praise or description from pen of mine. 
Generous to a fault, quick to get aiigry 
when his corns are pinched, and equally 
quick to forgive. He would get up in the 
middle of the night and go and watch 
with a sick friend. He was so liberal that 
it used to be said of him “that he would 
loan his friends all the bed-clothes out of 
his house if they wanted to borrow.” 

Whatever he owned of personal proper- 
ty belonged equally to his friends. Oblig- 
ing always, he was a model husband, and 
his wife loved him with a true woman’s 
devotion. 

They had several sons now progressing 
to manhood. No sooner had Armacost 
heard of the accident than he sent one' of 
his sons home to tell his wife that he 
would probably be away watching with a 
sick man. He then put on his coat, shut 
up his shop and started for Elijah Moor- 
head’s. On the way there he had fallen 
m with Shaffner and literally brought him 
along sans ceremonie. 

“Did you hear of my good luck?” asked 
Armacost, turning to Shaffner, 

“No, what is that?” 


82 


NO MONEY; 


“Why, about the new baby at our 
house.” 

“Not another boy?” 

“Yes, another boy. Til tell you all 
about it. One night last summer my wife 
waked me up in the night, and said there 
was a noise at the door like a child crying. 
So I got up and opened the door softly, 
and there lay a little black bundle on the 
step. I didn’t know what to make of it at 
first, and was about to draw back and shut 
the door. My wife in her anxiety had got 
up and followed me out. 

“ ‘What is it, Jimmie?’ she asked, gently 
putting me aside. She reached down, 
caught up the bundle, and brought it in- 
side. I closed the door and lighted the 
gas, while Mary undid the package, and 
out came a fat boy baby. 

“I looked at Mary and she at me. 

“ ‘Not mine,’ said I resolutely. 

“ ‘Who said it was, you goose?’ 

“ ‘Oh, nobody, only you looked at me so 
oddly.’ 

‘That was not it. I only wanted to 
know what to do with the poor little 
thing.’ 

“ ‘What do you say, Mary?’ 

“ ‘Keep it.’ 

“ ‘So say I;’ and we did keep it. When 
the children arose the next morning and 
found a new baby in the house, there was 
loud crowing. It wasn’t long until the 
story was all over the neighborhood, and 
then that baby was carried from house to 
house until, when night came, we could 
scarcely find him. He has grown now, 
and Mary says she thinks just as much of 
the little waif as she does of her own 
children, and I am sure I do.” 

Thus did these men beguile the weary 
watches of the night. At two o’clock in 
the morning the doctor came in and exam 
ined his patient. His face wore a serious 
air. 

“What now, doctor?” asked Armacost. 

“Symptoms very unfavorable. Watch 
him closely, and if you note any change, 
such as difficult breathing, send for me at 
once,” and with this he glided QUt as 
noiselessly as be came. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

Affairs were moving along smoothly 
down in Ward 5. Mrs. Gibbons and her 
daughter were finding a good deal of work 
through the efforts of Mr. Peckover and 
his wife, who had interested themselves in 
behalf of this worthy family. Being thus 
employed, mother and daughter were earn- 
ing a tolerable living for thep[iselves and 
Willie. With employment and improved 
prospects for the future came better spirits 
to all . The clouds of adversity seemed to 
be drifting away from the meridian of 
their sky. The joy of a sailor after a 
storm safely passed filled their hearts and 
lent a radiance to their daily lives. They 
were full of hope. Willie attended school 
regularly. On Sunday Stella would take 
her little brother and go to the Bethel to 
Sunday school. They both loved to go 
there. Stella had grown into such favor 
with Mr. Lee, the superintendent, that she 
had been assigned a class of little girls. 
From teaching others she soon learned to 
teach herself. She became a Christian. 
Her mother had long professed Christian- 
ity, and often visited a mission church in 
the vicinity of their home. 

Stella would read the Bible to her 
mother and Willie for hours when her time 
would permit. The evening readings were 
not always confined to the Bible, but other 
works were searched and their contents 
stored in Stella’s retentive memory. 

One day Stella came in pale and ex- 
cited. 

“ Oh, mother,” she began, “ I have just 
heard that George Somers was nearly 
killed last night.” 

“How, my child,” asked Mrs. Gibbons 
with anxiety. 

“ A pair of horses were running away 
with a carriage, and in trying to check 
them he got hurt. Poor George I ’’ 

“Who was in the carriage?** 

“Miss Lucy Moorhead.” 

“I hope she ^scaped harm,” said Mrs. 
Gibbons with much feeling. 

“She was not harmed at all, but poor 
George, they say, is lying insensible at 


‘ AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


83 


Mr. Moorhead’s. His life is almost des- 
paired of. I am sorry for him.” 

Mrs. Gibbons cast a glance at her 
daughter, and asked; 

“Why are you so sorry for Mr. Somers?” 

“Well — well, I’d be sorry for any one 
who was hurt in trying to save others from 
harm.” 

“Would you be as sorry for Mr. 
Wilson?” ' 

“Perhaps not, at least, I scarcely think 
1 should.” 

“Because you don’t love him as you do 
George Somers.” 

Stella’s face was scarlet, and to hide her 
blushes from her mother’s eye she turned 
and looked out at the little window. 

“I do not blame, but pity you. He does 
not love you in return.” 

Stella sighed heavily. 

“I saw when he visited us in company 
with Miss Moorhead that he was in love 
with her. She is too powerful a rival for 
you.” 

“But she told me,” said Stella, catching 
at a straw, that he did not visit them now.’’ 

“A lover’s quarrel has doubtless separa- 
ted them temporarily; but now that he has 
risked his life and saved hers, it will all be 
made up again.’’ 

Stella buried her face in her hands as if 
hoping to shut out the sight. 

“My child, give over grieving for 
George Somers, and try to think of some 
one else. Girls must wait to be courted. 
This is the misfortune of our sex. We 
dare not step beyond the prescribed limit. 
We must all take our chances. If a suita- 
ble person offers himself, we have but to 
accept. I am persuaded that many of the 
unfortunate marriages are brought about 
by this very condition of affairs. Girls 
have a horror of becoming old maids. 
They accept offers agains the promptings 
of their better judgment lest another 
should not come, and, as a consequence, 
are unhappily mated. You perhaps do 
not see this matter in the same light with 
me. You are younger, but when you 
have attained my vears, you will doubtless 
agree with me,” 


“I have no doubt, mother, that you 
speak the truth, and I will try and forget 
George. He has been so gdod and kind 
to us, but it would be unwomanly in me 
to go on loving him and not be loved in 
return.” 

“ Spoken like a lady. We can’t always 
get whom we like best, but whenever you 
find an honest and self-respecting young 
man whom you can love well enough to 
marry, come to me and I shall not object.” 

“ I don’t feel as though I should ever 
want to leave you, mother; you have been 
so kind to me. I really don’t now wish 
to marry any one.’’ 

“ You may feel so now, but sooner or 
later you will change your mind. Marriage 
is the goal of woman’s existence. She is 
a dependent creature, and clings to the 
stronger sex as the vine fastens its tendrils 
to the oak.’’ 

After a short pause, Mrs. Gibbons con- 
tinued in a subdued tone; 

“ My child, I have had strange forebod- 
ings for the past week or two. I can not 
tell how or when they first came, but I 
feel as though my days were almost num- 
bered.” 

“ Why, mother, what makes you talk so?" 
asked Stella, starting to her feet. 

“ Be quiet, my child, none of us will die 
until God wills it, and when he does, we 
must submit. I have had strange feelings 
of late — a sort of presentment that some 
great event in my life is about to occur. I 
can not describe these feelings to you, 
because they are undefined. Three nights 
ago I had a dream. Willie and I were 
traveling, hand in hand, in a desert waste. 
The sky was cloudless over our heads, and 
there was nothing but sand under our feet. 
There was not a hill or tree in sight. The 
walking was slavish by reason of our sink- 
ing almost to our shoe-tops in the yielding 
sand. As we struggled on, the sun sent 
down his scorching rays, almost blistering 
our faces and hands. We were weary and 
tliirsty, and would have given all the world 
for one drink of cool water. We thought 
we saw a lake but a little way in advance; 
but as we approached, it seemed to recede 


84 


NO MONEY: 


and then I remembered to have heard you 
read how travelers journeying through the 
great desert pf Africa were often deceived 
by the mirage. At last we could go no 
longer, and sank down from exhaustion. 
While we thus lay panting on the sand, an 
angel came and asked whither we journey- 
ed? 

“ Had it wings ? ” asked Stella. 

“ Yes ; and carried a shepherd’s crook. 
Well, I replied that my child and I were 
journeying in search of water with which 
to quench our thirst.” 

“ Then your wish shall be gratified,’’ it 
said. The* angel raised its crook and 
waved it over its head three times. Look! 
it said, pointing across the desert waste.”, 

W’e did look, and my eyes never beheld 
such a scene. The desert rolled up like 
a piece of parchment and we stood on the 
bank of a river of pure water. 

“ Now slake thy thirst, said the angel, 
taking from its girdle a golden goblet and 
handing it to me. Willie and I ran down 
to the margin of the stream, and dipped 
up the water and put it to our lips; but it 
was bitter, and we turned back disgusted; 
but our thirst was gone. We climbed the 
bank of the river, and sat down beside the 
angel. We saw across the river a beautiful 
grove, and a little beyond a great city. 
From the grove came the sound of the 
sweetest music the ear of mortal ever 
heard. We could see other angels fliting 
among the trees with harps in their hands. 

“ What river is this ? ’’ I asked. 

‘The River of Death,’ ” replied the good 
being at our side. 

“ ‘And the city beyond ? ’ ” 

‘“That is the Promised Land; the land 
where the sun never sets; the clime where 
sickness and pain and death never come.’ 

“‘Who are those who dwell there?’ 

“ ‘Those who love and obey the great 
Ruler of the Universe; a final abiding 
place for the saints who have remained 
faithful to the end of life.” 

“ ‘Do none ever come back to earth ? ’ 

“ ‘None ever wish to return, having once 
gained that delightful abode, and been 
greeted with the welcome that awaits all 
good pilgrims.’ 


•“Can we not go over I asked. . 

‘“Not until you are called. None ever 
pass this stream until they are beckoned 
from beyond.’ The angel mused a mo* 
ment and then continued : 

“‘No, good sister; go back to your 
friends, and in a little while you and this 
darling boy will meet me at this spot, and 
I will give you safe guidance to that better 
land.” 

“ ‘The angel waved its wand, and I 
awoke.” 

Stella listened with breathless interest 
to the story of her mother’s dream. She 
was half frightened at it. 

“ I am no believer in dreams, continued 
Mrs. Gibbons, but there was something so 
real in it all that it startled me when I 
awoke. I reflected a moment, and then 
arose, and crept softly to your bed, and 
Willie’s to see if you were there.” 

“ Oh, mother, you frighten me. The 
very thought of you and Willie being taken 
away. But 1 should not be long behind 
you.” 

“ God forbid that I should frighten you 
my daughter; but it may all prove to be 
an idle dream at last. I have no wish to 
die now. I would live for my children’s 
sake, if for nothing else.” 

Mrs. Gibbons then drew her daughter’s 
mind away to a more pleasant theme. 

CHAPTER XXXT. 

The two watchers, thus admonished by 
the doctor, watched closely at the bedside 
of the patient. About four o’clock in the 
morning Somers became more restless and 
talked freely at times. He talked discon- 
nectedly upon all ‘subjects. Sometimes it 
was his mother and again it was Lucy 
Moorhead. When the power of the brain 
called reason has flown, the mind 
wanders on uncontrolled. The balance- 
wheel is wanting, and the machinery goes 
aimlessly on. Yet in these vague wander- 
ings of a mind that is temporarily unbal- 
lanced, there are certain things that 
come out into characteristic prominence. 
Thoughts that would probably not find at- 


AN ODD FELLOWS* STORY. 


85 


terance coming out of a sound mind often 
creep out of a diseased one. George 
Somers would try to raise himself in bed, 
and ask why Miss Moorhead had deserted 
him. Then one of the watchers would 
speak kindly to him, and gently press him 
back on the pillow. 

The symptoms were such' that Armacost 
dispatched Shaffner for the physician. 
While he was absent Somers became more 
violent and attempted to arise from the 
bed, becoming very loud in his talk. It 
was only by the most violent exertions that 
Armacost could keep him down; indeed 
the exertion caused the perspiration to 
start from every pore the of watcher’s 
face. While trying to soothe the sufferer, 
a light female figure glided into the room. 
It was Lucy Moorhead. 

She came up to the other side of the 
bed and spoke soothingly to Somers, and 
begged him to be quiet. There is a mag- 
netism about a woman, s voice that has its 
effect upon even a half-crazed mind. No 
sooner had she spoken than Somers spoke 
back and said: “If Miss Moorhead was 
here she would allow me to get up and 
walk.’’ 

Lucy said nothing, but arranged his 
pillow so that his head would rest easier. 

“You are robbing yourself of needed 
rest, I fear. Miss,” said Armacost kindly. 

“Oh, no, sir; I have not been asleep a 
minute, the whole night. Why did they 
drive me away when it is I that should 
have been watching here instead of you?” 

“I think,” said Armacost, “that if you 
had been watching him alone, he would 
have been in Ward 5 by this time.” 

Lucy saw the force of his remark and 
asked: 

“Had you not an assistant in the even- 
ing?” 

“Yes, he has gone for the physician.’’ 

“Then you think him worse tkan in the 
evening?” aoked Lucy, trying to read Arm- 
acost’s fears in his face. 

He never moved a muscle under the 
scrutiny. 

“ Well, no. Miss, not much worse, but 
any change of symptoms ought to be re- i 


ported to the doctor. He is the best judge 
as to whether they are for the better or 
worse.” 

“Very true, sir, and I thank you for 
your kindness to Mr. Somers.’’ 

“Oh, we don’t work for thanks, or we 
would all be overpaid. Yet it is a satis- 
faction to help those who can not help 
themselves.” 

“I believe you are a friend of Mr. 
Somers.” 

“Well, yes; a brother in the lodge.’’ 

“Oh, I see, you belong to the same soci- 
ety. I remember to have heard him say 
that he was an Odd Fellow.” 

“That’s it.” 

“You always take care of your sick, I 
believe?” 

“Always. That is one of the commands 
of our Order.” 

“I begin to like the Odd Fellows. It is 
the true friend that stands by us in the 
hour of sickness. What a noble sentiment 
to prompt men to assist each other in ad- 
versity I” 

“It is indeed. Miss,” said honest Arma- 
cost, his face glowing with the zeal of his 
soul. “I have been an Odd Fellow this 
many a year, and I tried to live up to its 
teachings, not only in the lodge room, but 
in the world at large. It is a sore trial 
sometimes, but I have always felt better 
afterwards for the effort.” 

• Odd Fellowship was Armacost’s hobby, 
and there is no telling how long he might 
have continued to eulogize the Order but 
for the arrival of Shaffner with the physi- 
cian. 

The doctor looked a little surprised at 
finding Lucy in the room and at the bed- 
side of his patient. 

Lucy caught the look of wonder on the 
face of the medicine man, and blushed 
lightly. 

The doctor turned to his patient and 
regarded him attentively. He was still 
restless. So a small quantity of morphia 
was administered. After this he quieted 
down and slept soundly. 

“Gentlemen,’’ said the doctor, address- 
ing the nurses, “you have been up all 


NO MONEY; 


S9 

night, and it ia now coming day. I will 
relieve you, as I shall not go home until 
breakfast time.” 

The two nurses bid Lucy good morning 
and quietly withdrew. After they had 
gone the doctor said; “Miss Moorhead, I 
fear you have robbed yourself of needed 
rest after the excitement of yesterday.” 

‘‘Oh, no, sir, I could not sleep at all, so 
I thought I might as well contribute my 
poor mite, especially as this all comes of 
trying to save me from harm.’ ’ 

“It seems to me that you rate the service 
too high. Mr. Somers was a policeman; 
and it was his duty to do all he can for any 
one who needs his services.” 

“Yes; but he was not on duty at the 
time.’’ 

“That may be; and yet a policeman is 
never off duty as far as defending the 
helpless is concerned.” 

“But how many of them, pray, are will- 
ing to risk their lives, whether on duty or 
off duty, in trying to stop a pair of vicious 
horses, that have taken the bits in their 
teeth and are flying along at break-neck 
speed, threatening to dash the carriage to 
pieces every moment?” 

“I am willing to admit this is an excep- 
tional case.’’ 

“If Mr. Somers had been killed, I should 
have mourned his fate all my life.” 

Lucy said this so earnestly that the Doc- 
tor looked at her with a little surpise. A 
dight pause ensued. Then Lucy asked: 

“Are you an Odd Fellow, Doctor?” 

“You mean, am I married?” 

“No, sir, I mean do you belong to a 
society called Odd Fellows?’’ 

“No, I do not.” 

“You ought to join them.” 

“Why so?” 

“Because it seems as if almost all the 
gentlemen belong. 

Esculapius looked a little puzzled. He 
scarcely knew what construction to put on 
the word gentlemen, in the connection in 
which it was used. 

“ Well, I don’t know,’’ he said “I am 
acquainted with many good people that 
are Odd Fellows; and many bad ones too, 

for that matter.’’ 


“We ought not to judge an institution 
harshly, because they get in some unworthy 
people. Churches do, you know?’’ 

“ Yes, Miss Moorhead, but churches are 
not secret societies. We know what 
people go to chnrch for, because we can 
go ourselves if we choose; but we do not 
know what is done in these secret con- 
claves, I am sure.” 

“Nothing wrong, I hope.” 

“ We do not know what they are up to.’* 

“ If they were hatching mischief, 1 
scarcely think they would go about helping 
poor people and watching by sick-beds.’’ 

“ They may have a purpose in all that; 
but I am free to say they behave them 
selves very well generally. But you know, 
much we do from interested motives. For 
instance, if I go and sit by the sick-bed 
of another, when he needs care, is it not 
reasonable that he will return the favor 
when I need attention? ” 

“ Most assuredly, but what harm is 
there in that ? ” Does not the Bible teach 
us that we are to help each other. ‘Do 
unto others as ye would that others should 
do unto you.’ ” 

“ Oh, I have no fault to find; but 1 was 
only arguing that the motive was not whol- 
ly disinterested.” 

“ Of course not. How many things are 
done in this world from disinterested mo- 
tives? Would you have spent the best 
years of your life in studying medicine 
from disinterested motives ? Would the 
inventor immure himself in a garret, plan- 
ing, and studying, and drafting, from dis- 
interested motives ? ’’ 

The doctor was not a Hercules in argu- 
ment, so he yielded the point, for he scarce- 
ly knew where he would be cornered next. 

“Well, I see where you are driving. 
Miss Moorhead, so I yield the palm of 
victory to you.” 

Lucy blushed at finding herself so earn- 
estly defending an Order of which she 
knew so little. Yet for all this, George 
Somers was an Odd Fellow, and he had 
done a gallant action, and as he was now 
hors de combat^ and she his next friend, 
it would not be right to have an institution 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


of which he was a member slandered, and 
more especially by one who acknowledged 
that he knew nothing more of it than he 
could see with a curb-stone-ticket. The 
wily doctor knew more than he chose to 
acknowledge. He had once been a mem- 
ber — that was a long time ago. He was 
a younff man then, and trying to build up 
a practice. He had joined in the hope of 
enlarging the sphere of his acquaintance 
and thereby acquiring a more extensive 
practice. When he got in, he found 
several more doctors ahead of him. Then 
he “soured on the Order,’’ as the saying 
goes, and finally allowed himself to be 
dropped for non-payment of dues. 

The family began to be astir, and Mrs. 
Somers came to the bedside of her son, 
and relieved both Lucy and the doctor. 
During the forenoon, Lucy was alone with 
the patient. He was moaning slightly. 
She watched him attentively for a long 
time, and then the tears would come un- 
forbidden into her eyes. She turned 
suddenly, and looked around the room, to 
see if they were alone, and the next mo- 
ment she bent gracefully over the sufferer 
and imprinted a kiss on his pale foreheaa. 
Then she blushed scarlet at her forward- 
ness. 

Somers muttered half audibly; 

“ Stay with me forever, sweet angel.” 

Lucy flitted out of the room like a scared 
bird. Somers raised himself on his elbow, 
and looked around. 

“ Where am I ? ” he asked. 

No answer. 

He looked about him in bewilderment, 
much as a man arising from the grave. 
There was no object that seemed familiar. 
His mother came in, and a smile of intelli- 
gence crept over his face. 

“ Mother, where am I?’’ 

“ My dear b«y, you are with friends. 
God be praised that you have come back 
to reason,” and the good woman shed tears 
of joy. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

** Oh, dear mother , ' said Somers as 
reason began to resume her wonted sway, 


87 

“ I had such a dream as I never had in 
my whole life.” 

“ Indeed 1” 

“ Yes, 1 thought I was walking along the 
edge of a precipice looking for some wild 
animal , (a deer, I think) that I had shot 
and which had fallen or leaped into the 
abyss. 

While shading my eyes with my right 
hand trying to fathom the gloom and 
shadows of the place, a great black bird 
came up from the darkness flapping its 
raven wings and uttering a wild unearthly 
scream that made me shudder. I watched 
it as it rose steadily in the air, and sailed 
away out of sight. While trying to think 
if I had ever seen such a bird before, 1 
felt the earth crumbling under my feet. I 
tried hard to leave the spot, but some 
mysterious power held me fast. My feet 
gradually lost their hold on the earth and 
I went down, down, and in an agony of 
despair I looked up as if expecting help 
from the skies. It came. The, black and 
repulsive bird that I had seen winging its 
way from the abyss, was now seen darting 
down, cutting the air like a knife as it 
came. My first impression was that this 
vulture had scented death from afar, and^ 
was hastening to the feast. But when the 
bird came within a few feet of me, and I 
could almost feel the vibration of the air 
caused by the flapping of its wings, it 
suddenly changed into the most beautiful 
woman I had ever saw. She extended 
her hand and I grasped it as a dying man 
clutches a straw. Then we began .to go 
up and up until we reached the top again, 
and I was laid panting on the grass. Then 
this sweet girl stooped down and kissed 
me and vanished, I know not where. Was 
this not a strange dream ? 

“ It was indeed my son — very strange.’* 

•‘And now I think of it, this lady re- 
sembled Miss Lucy Moorhead. Strange 
I did not notice the resemblance before.” 

“ Yes, but Miss Moorhead would not 
have kissed you, George.” 

“ No I suppose it could not have been 
her; but you have not told me where I am 
for surely we are not at home.” 


88 


NO MONEY; 


** We are at Mr. Moorhead’s.” 

“ What are we doing here ? ” he asked 
in astonishment. 

“ Can’t you think, my dear boy, of trying 
to stop a runaway team and getting hurt.” 

He mused a few minutes. 

‘‘ Yes, it is all plain enough. Why, it 
was only a 'few minutes ago.” 

“ Nearly a day has passed.” 

Is it possible. But I feel very sore. 
It pains me to move.” 

I doubt it not, my son ; your leg is 
broken, and you are bruised otherwise.’’ 

“ I don’t mind the bruises, for they come 
in the line of my duty ; but if I have done 
anything to save her precious life, then I 
am the happiest man that ever lived. 
But, pshaw, she icares nothing for me 
now.’’ 

** You are mistaken, my son, in that, 
for she spent a portion of the night in 
watching over you with the tenderness of 
a sister. She has wept and prayed for 
your recovery, and only left the room 
when she saw reason returning.” 

“ If that be the case, I care not if every 
bone in my body had been broken ; ” and 
George’s countenance lighted up. 

“Be discreet, my son, and your path is 
tlear. Few young men have such an op- 
portunity given them to win the girl they 
love than is now offered to you.” 

Somers now began to convalesce ; but a 
broken limb is a serious affair, and it takes 
time to knit the bones, and many a twinge 
of pain must come and go. The Odd 
Fellows were unremitting in their care, 
and as for Lucy Moorhead, she watched 
over him and waited upon him. She re- 
garded him as under her special charge. 
On the other hand, Somers was never so 
well satisfied as when Lucy was at his bed- 
side. To him she was an angel of light, 
and no pain could wring a sigh from him 
while she was near, 

“ What a blessing it is ? ” he thought, 
** to be sick, and have such a nurse.” 

One day the mayor called to see him, 
and in the course of a conversation told 
him that he had promoted him to a lieu- 
tenaooy. At any other tiijue Somers would 


have felt elated, but now he told his Honor 
that “ while feeling grateful 4Ior the com- 
pliment, he should not long enjoy his pro- 
motion; for,” said he, “I shall soon leave 
the force. 

The mayor was a little surprised, and 
asked, “ what motive impelled him to re- 
tire ?” 

“ I have been studying law for some time 
during my leisure hours, and I shall be 
compelled to leave the force to attend the 
law school.” 

His Honor wished him success in tiis 
new profession, and ventured the opinion 
that if he was as zealous at law as he 
had been as a policeman he would suc- 
ceed. 

Time went on, and Somers had so far 
recovered that he might be taken home 
without danger. His , mother therefore 
suggested to him the propriety of their 
going home at once. This suggestion 
caused him a pang of regret ; yet he could 
not think of longer remaining a guest in 
the house, although they had shown him 
the greatest kindness. It was agreed be- 
tween mother and son that they should go 
on the following day. ^ The good woman 
then hastily took her departure to make 
preparation for the reception of her son. 
The half-deserted house must be opened 
and aired, and every precaution taken to 
insure her son’s comfort. 

John, the coachman, who, out of grati- 
tude to Somers for saving his own bones 
as well as his mistresses’, had been very 
assiduous in his efforts to do something to 
please the policeman, came into the room 
soon after Mrs. Somers went away. “Is 
there henny thing I can do for you?’’ was 
John’s salutation, as he tugged at his 
front hair and stood bowing and ahem- 
ming. George did not always have use 
for his services, but on this particular oc- 
casion he told John he would like to get 
up and dress. 

“H’at your service, Mr. Somers. Hi 
pride myself on being a first-class valet. 
Why bless my hi’s, that’s my hold trade 
in Hingland before I took to ’ors es. Hi 
was valet to Lord Ramj of Northumber* 


89 


AN ODD FELLOWS, STORY. 


land three years; then I nursed in an ’os- 
pital in Manchester three years, then — 

“I have no doubt you understand your 
business, so help me out of bed, but first 
lock that door. We must have no intru- 
ders.” 

John turned the key. 

“Now for it John. I’ve been in bed so 
long I believe I’ve forgotten how to walk.’ 

“No doubt, sir. Now heasy, don’t jump 
hif a twinge snaps you hup so.’’ and John, 
brought Somer’s feet out of bed first. “Now 
set so until I bring a basin of water.” 

‘With John’s assistance, the patient per- 
formed his ablutions and dressed himself. 
The valet understood his business so thor 
oughly that the broken limb was not jarred 
a particle. John dressed him and brushed 
his clothes and then arranged his cravat 
with the nicety of an artist. He then 
seated George on a sofa and placed the 
wounded limb on another, with a pillow 
under it. 

“You feel a little bit dizzy, hi have no 
doubt, sir,’’ said John as he stepped off a 
few feet to more critically view his work. 

“I do indeed.” 

“That will wear hoff gradually; it comes 
hof laying hin bed so long, sir.” 

“Are you a doctor as well as a valet and 
coachman?’’ 

“Oh, no, sir, but staying in the ’ospital 
80 long I come to know some of the symp-, 
toms like.” 

“I have no doubt you ^ould do about as 
well as many that are peddling pills, for 
I’ve heard it remarked by physicians that 
were not too bigoted to tell the truth, that 
good nursing was half the batle in sick- 
ness.’’ 

“That is very true, sir, as hi hobserved 
in the 'ospital, Hif it weren’t for the 
nurses ’alf the patients would go to the 
bone-yard in no time; but ’ow do you find 
yourself now, sir?’’ 

“I feel a little weak yet; but I’ll gain 
strength, I hope, in time.’’ 

“Yes, laying hin bed don’t excite circu- 
lation; you want hexercise. The surgeon 
has done his work, nature must do the 
rest.’.’ 


“John, I am certainly under many obli- 
gations to you for your kindness to me 
while here, but I shall not trouble you af- 
ter to day.” 

“What, not going to leave, sir?” 

“Yes, going home.” 

“Sorry to ear it, but hi suppose hits 
best. I opes hi am not ungrateful to you, 
sir, for stopping them orses that evening. 
Hif I’ve done you any little kindness, hit’s 
because hi’m grateful to you for what 
you’ve done for me.” 

“Thank you, John. You may now re- 
tire and tell Miss Lucy I would be pleased 
to see her.’’ 

John bowed and" went on his errand. 


CHAPTER XXXin. 

There was a great consternation among 
the people of the Queen City of the West. 
The hot sun of early August poured its 
fiery rays into the lanes and alleys, turning 
them into furnaces by day and scarce more 
endurable abiding places by night. Built 
almost exclusively of brick and mortar, 
and located in a basin that shuts out any 
stray zephyrs that might otherwise fan its 
parched and glowing streets, Cincinnati 
is a hot place in summer. Add to this a 
terrible epidemic that stalks unseen in the 
air and clutches its victims unawares, and 
the place becomes unendurable. The 
Asiatic cholera was that year paying one 
of its unfavorable visits to this continent, 
and did this city ever escape its fangs? 

Thousands of people took the alarm 
when the death rate suddenly ran up to 
ten per day, and they fled to more favored 
localities with their families; but the great 
mass of people, either unwilling or unable 
to flee in the face of danger, remained at 
home. Yet as the death rate rose steadily 
from day to day, people in perfect health 
felt a sort of undefined fear. The fear 
was heightened as they sawslimly attended 
funerals hastening in the direction of 
Spring Grove. The man who went to bed 
vowing he would not get alarmed, turned 
pale in the morning when he awoke and 
tound hia next-door neighbor had beeja 


90 


NO MONBYj 


taken sick and died in the night. The 
veriest quack nostrums found eager pur- 
chasers if they bore that mysterious label; 
‘^Cholera Antidote.” Druggists thrived 
find fattened on peoples’ fears. 

No person felt safe or at ease, unless a 
bottle of cholera medicine was within 
easy reach. We knew one young man 
who provided himself with a bottle of anti- 
dote which he carried home. Then it oc- 
curred to him that he might be taken at 
his place of business, so he supplied a 
duplicate for the store. Still he was not 
satisfied, for, thought he, “I might be 
seized between the two places,” so he pre- 
pared a small bottle to carry in his 
pocket. 

Many persons who had led temperate 
lives heretofore began to imbibe strong 
liquors as an antidote — the very worst 
thing they could have done. Business 
was paralyzed, and the shops were empty 
because country people feared to venture 
into the smitten city. There was a settled 
gloom hanging over the city that no pen 
can portray or words express. Those who 
have witnessed these trying times will re- 
member them to the day of their death. 
The doctors were powerless, and often fell 
-Fictims themselves, in a noble effort to 
itay the hand of the destroying angel. The 
scourge began as usual in the poorer dis- 
tricts of the city, along the river front and 
up the valley of Deer Creek; but gaining 
force it broke its narrow bounds and 
seized the wealthier portions of the city, 
until there was no place that had absolute 
immunity from its ravages. Steamers 
that came and went, often had to seek a 
landing on some lonely shore to bury a 
victim. Yet amid all these terrors of 
mind, real and imaginary, there arose 
many a bright and shining example of 
moral heroism. Men and women, who, 
when the insidious monster had crept into 
their fold as a thief in the night, developed 
a courage that was worthy of the highest 
praise and noblest eulogy. A book of in- 
cidents connected with the visits of the 
cholera to our American cities, would be a 
readable one indeed. Many of the moral 


heroes perished at the bedsides of those 
they loved, when flight might have spared 
their lives yet a little longer. 

Day and night the physicians went from 
house to house lending their assistance, 
careless of their own lives in an effort to 
heal the smitten. Space forbids our gen- 
eralizing longer. 

Mrs. Gibbons had noted with fear the 
ravages of the cholera in the immediate 
vicinity of her home, yet thus far no one 
had been smitten in the tenement-house in 
which she lived. 

One night, near the hour of twelve, she 
heard loud moaning in one of the neigh- 
boring rooms. She did not awaken her 
children, but after a time Stella asked who 
was sick. 

Mrs. Gibbons replied that she thought 
it was Mrs. Johnson the wife of a coal- 
heaver that had recently moved into the 
house. Both lay still for a few minutes, 
when they heard a man in heavy boots 
walk along the hall and stopped at their 
door. He rapped on the door with his 
knuckles. Mrs. Gibbons asked what was 
wanted. 

“My wife is very sick, and would you be 
so kind as to stay with her while I run 
for a doctor?’* 

“Certainly,” replied Mrs. Gibbons, who 
was already out of bed and striking a 
match. The man hurried away, and Mrs. 
Gibbons hastily threw on her clothes and 
went into the sick room. She found the 
woman in the greatest agony. H er legs 
and arms were being drawn into strange 
shapes. The muscles were rigid and 
drawn into knots. Even the muscles of 
her face had not escaped, and her counte- 
nance was distorted and drawn until it was 
frightful to behold. The husband soon re- 
turned with Dr. Pedigoss, the ward phy- 
sician, at his heels. 

The doctor took but a single glance, 
and then went to work. He had a cholera 
antidote of his own, made up largely of 
camphor and laudanum. This he adminis- 
tered internally, while all three went to 
chafing the woman’s limbs, trying to re- 
store warmth to those blood-forsaken 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


91 


members. For more than an hour they 
worked and rubbed, and for a time it 
seemed as if the patient would 'rally, but at 
last she sank rapidly and died at two a. m. 

Oh, wonderful sciencel how beautiful in 
theoryl how impotent in application! 
While science and medicine stands shiver- 
ing at the door King Cholera stalks boldly 
in, steals his victim and is away. 

Two days after the death of Mrs. John- 
son, Willie Gibbons was taken with a diar- 
rhea, which yielded at last to some medi- 
cine prescribed by Dr. Pedigoss. Then 
it came on again, and while nothing seri- 
ous seemed to grow out of his illness for 
the next twenty-four hours, yet he did not 
get well, but gradually grew worse, and 
another case of cholera was rapidly devel- 
oped. The child grew worse with every 
hour of time. 

Mr. Peckover learning that there was 
sickness down at Mrs. Gibbons, with char- 
acteristic forethought, brought his wife and 
another Christian lady to spend the night 
in watching. Poor Mrs. Gibbons and 
Stella hung over the child, and worked 
and cried and prayed alternately as they 
saw him rapidly failing and drawing near- 
er to death’s door. A little while before 
he died, and when the disease seemed to 
leave him for a few minutes, he turned his 
eyes to his mother as if he wished to say 
something to her. Mrs. Gib bons bent her 
her ear to the little sufferer’s mouth, and 
he whispered, for he was too weak to talk 
louder:“ Mother put on my Sunday clothes.” 

‘‘What for, my child?” 

“ Because I see lots of children like me, 
and they are motioning me to come too. 
They are dressed up in nice clothes, and I 
want to be like them.” 

“I hope you will stay with me, Willie,” 
replied Mrs. Gibbons, her grief almost 
choking her. 

“Oh, I can’t stay; mother, you will come 
soon,” — after a pause — “Good-bye, mother. 
Tell sister good-bye. Now kiss me, and 
don’t cry so.” 

They all gathered about the bed, for each 
one instinctively felt that Willie must go 
soon. The time came at last, and the 


spirit of the child fled the clay, to find a 
home in that blessed land where sorrow 
and suffering never come. 

Overcome by the great weight of their 
sorrow, mother and daughter sank upon 
their knees, one on each side of the bed. 
They did not thus long remain, for Mrs. 
Gibbons fell back upon the floor, grappled 
by the monster that had robbed her of her 
child. It was a moment when strong men 
would have quailed and fled, but these two 
good women, who had come to assist, were 
not dismayed. Their courage rose with 
the demands upon it. They picked up 
Mrs. Gibbons, and laid her upon a bed, 
and at once dispatched a messenger for 
Dr. Pedigoss. He came and administered 
the ^ame remedies that he had prescribed 
for the child, but the poor woman sank 
rapidly. Her sufi^rings were terrible. 

To one who has seen a case of genuine 
Asiatic cholera, and watched its effect 
from the first spasm until death ensues, we 
need not rehearse each phase of the disease. 
Their own recollection will supply the de- 
scription. To one who has never seen 
such a case, we simply say, we pray God 
you never may. We have seen it some- 
where stated that the real suffering of those 
who are stricken with cholera is not so 
great as appearance would seem to indi. 
cate. The cramping itself would of itself 
imply great bodily suffering. Yet there 
is a point beyond which suffering cannot 
go. Death stands ready to cut the gordian 
knot, and bid the quivering body rest. 

Mrs. Gibbons sank more rapidly than 
either of the two cases we have described. 
She called Stella to her and said that her 
dream was about to be realized, “but,” con- 
tinued bhe, “ I have but one regret, and 
that is, that you will be left an orphan — - 
houseless and homeless.” 

“ Oh I dear mother, do not leave me,’’ 
sobbed Stella, her poor heart almost break- 
ing- 

Mrs. Peckover, with tears in her eyes, 
took Mrs. Gibbons’s cold hand and said; 
“Stella shall have a home with me, should 
God be pleased to spare our lives.” 


92 


NO MONEY; 


^‘God will reward you, I am sure, for 
your kindness to the poor.’’ 

“He has been very merciful to us all. 
Oh, Mrs. Gibbons, are you prepared to 
•meet him in this awful moment?” 

“’Aye, and anxious. He has spared me 
and been more merciful to me, than to 
others more deserving. I have no fear. I 
have implicit faith in the promises he has 
made to sinners. I am his body and 
soul.” 

Six hours after the first symptom ap- 
peared, Mrs. Gibbons died. Poor woman 1 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Every age of the world has had its he- 
roic women. The inspired penmen* of 
Holy Writ have not forgotten the noble 
deeds of a Rachel, a Ruth, and an Esther. 
Profane historians have been quick to note 
and eager to pen the noble deeds of woman 
in war or peace Her nerve and ambition 
may sometimes fit her as a leader of 
armies, but her gentle heart and ready 
hands more often fit her as a devoted nurse 
at the couch of the sick or dying. It is 
here she rises to the sublime, and sheds a 
radiance that must warm every heart with 
a genial glow of admiration. 

Mrs. Peckover and her companion, Mrs. 
Schon, were brave and self possessed. At 
this awful moment when death stared them 
in the face, they arose to that sublime atti- 
tude where a woman becomes a heroine. 
Placed in a position where hundreds of 
others would have fled in dismay, they 
never faltered in their duty for one mo- 
ment. Had another been fatally attacked, 
they would still have stood firm. They 
took the'only precaution they could take — 
opened wide the door and window that the 
air might circulate freely through the 
room. Then they went bravely to work to 
wash and dress the dead for the funeral, 
which they knew would take place some- 
time during the day. They assisted Stella 
to undress, and put her to bed, but not to 
sleep ; for she lay there groaning and cry- 
ing the remainder of the night. They be- 
gan to prepare Wiilie first. Mrs. Peck- 


over stopped suddenly, and pointed to the 
child’s breast. 

“ What is it ?” whispered Mrs. Schon. 

“ An Odd Fellow’s pin.” 

“ Ah ! then these poor people are Odd 
Fellows, or rather their father was.’’ 

“ Yes, and deserve our sympathy for it.’’ 

“ Indeed they do, for are we not the 
Daughters of Rebekah ?’’ 

“ Very true, and I am glad we have some 
opportunity of showing our appreciation 
of the noble lesson we have learned.” 

Mrs. Peckover undid the pin from the 
child’s shirt, and going to the chair where 
Stella’s dress lay, fastened it on. 

“The child needs it no longer now, ana 
Stella may,’’ she said, turning to the bed. 

Late the following afternoon a small fu- 
neral procession went out the avenue in the 
direction of Spring Grove Cemetery. A 
hearse with its black plumes led the ad- 
vance, while it might have been noticed 
that the first hack coming next, contained 
only a small coffin, then came the mourn- 
ers in half a dozen carriages. 

As the procession moved through the 
wide gate-way and over the gravelled road, 
the sexton tolled the bell. Indeed, in these 
terrible days the sexton did little else than 
toll the bell, for there were now forty or 
fifty funerals daily. The procession halted 
at the precise spot where we once took the 
reader and told him that Mr. Giobons was 
buried. 

One wide grave had been dug, and 
mother and son were lowered by the sol- 
emn-visaged gravemen. These men had 
their sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and 
their sunburnt arms gave evidence of hon- 
est toil. They had, in the course of a long 
service, witnessed many heartrending and 
affecting scenes, until they had come to 
take them as a matter of course. 

As the two corpses were borne up to the 
grave, the little procession followed. First 
came Stella Gibbons leaning upon the arm 
of an aged member, whose hair betokened 
the joys and sorrows of many years. He 
had known her father well, and had come 
to pay this tribute to the memory of his 
friend’s wife and child. Then came Mr. 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


Peckover and hia wife, followed by a num- 
ber of the Order, George Somers among 
the rest, although it was with great diffi- 
culty he could walk. 

The procession stopped at the grave, and 
the coffins were quickly lowered, and the 
clods pattered and thumped down upon 
the board covering. Stella shook like an 
aspen, as she saw through her tears that 
those she loved so well were being hid for- 
ever by the cold and unsympathetic clods 
of earth. The graveraen plied their shov- 
els, and soon two little heaving mounds 
marked the spot where the bodies lay. The 
venerable man on whose arm Stella hung 
said : 

“ My friends and brothers — The last is 
the most solemn moment of our lives. To 
the old who have lived the number of years 
allotted to man, death is not always an un- 
welcome visitor, but to the young and mid- 
dle-aged, it comes in seeming hardship. 
Yet, ray brothers, we must all die — the 
mandate has gone forth from the throne of 
the Almighty Ruler of the Universe. It is 
but a span from the cradle to the grave, 
and death lays in ambush for the young and 
old alike. What a blessed thought, that 
beyond the grave we shall meet in that bet- 
ter land where sorrow and suffering 
never come, and where our broken and 
bruised hearts shall be healed by the tide 
that shall flow from the fountain of benev- 
olence and peace.” 

He then offered a short and earnest 
prayer, and dismissed those present. All 
had sympathized with the poor girl, now 
so deeply afflicted. Mr. Peckover and his 
wife turned to speak a word or two with a 
friend. They had not talked more than a 
couple of minutes when the good woman 
said : 

We must take Stella home with us. Let 
us get her in our carriage and be off, for I 
know the poor girl is worn out.” 

They turned to speak to Stella, but she 
had disappeared. 

Where did Miss Gibbons go?’’ Mr. 
Peckover demanded of a bystander, 

“ She got in a hack and drove away, 
sir,” replied the man. 


93 

“ Then, wife, we must be on the move 
and overhaul her.” 

They got into their buggy, and drove 
away toward the city. The steady old nag 
that drew the buggy in which Mr. and Mrs. 
Peckover were seated, was like a great 
many others of his kind, a splendid funeral 
horse. His gait was snail-like, but when 
it came to overhauling a pair of under- 
taker’s gaunt tackies, that he couldn’t do. 
He had his gait, and neither whip nor spur 
could increase it. Carriage after carriage 
rolled by and a cloud of dust arose, but 
Mr. Peckover’s family horse had long since 
abandoned any ambitious notions he might 
have entertained of being a king on the 
avenue. 

They jogged leisurely on until they 
reached home, and there Mrs. Peckover 
got out while the old gentleman hastened 
down to Mrs. Gibbons’ late residence, not 
doubting but that he should find Stella and 
bring her home with him. Arrived in front 
of the tenement house, he called a boy and 
gave him a dime to see that old Dick did 
not wander away. He found his way up 
the stairs, and once more stood at the door 
of the room we have so often described. He 
rapped gently. No response. 

Again he rapped louder than before; 
still no answer. He then raised the latch 
and pushed the door ajar. The room was 
empty. For some moments Mr. Peckover 
stood looking about the vacant room; then 
he retired and closed the door behind h»im. 
Reaching the street, it occurred to him 
that he had forgotten to make inquiries of 
the other tenants. This required another 
trip up stairs. He wandered through the 
hall, rapped upon the doors; but he saw 
no one, and could hear no one. 

Taking a seat in his buggy, he resolved 
to await Stella’s arrival. The sun had al- 
ready set, and the shades of evening were 
already drawing on. The lamplighter was 
hastening along with his little ladder and 
torch fighting back, as it were, the increas- 
ing darkness. 

Mr. Peckover waited fully an hour, won- 
dering what could have become of Stella, 
and half fearing that some accident had 


94 


NO MONEY| 


befallen her. Then the old man turned 
sorrowfully homeward. On the way he 
met Jeflf Wilson, the policeman, and told 
him his trouble. Jeff said that he would 
go around that way occasionally, and if he 
could see or hear of Miss Gibbons, she 
should be cared for. 

Mr. Peckover went home, much per- 
plexed and very sorrowful. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

When Stella Gibbons tnrned away from 
the grave of these she loved, she felt that 
all she cared for on earth were buried 
there. She was* a houseless, homeless 
wanderer on life’s troubled sea. Her eyes 
seemed to burn in their sockets, and her 
heart felt cold. Half crazed, she turned 
away and crept up to the carriage in which 
she came. Mechanically she got in. The 
driver closed the door and sprang upon 
his seat in front, and the hack rolled away, 
the first to leave the cemetery. The driver 
had an engagement with his sweetheart 
that evening, and as there was no limit to 
the gait to be observed by returning 
funeral parties, he moved down the avenue 
in good style. The police of Cummins- 
ville shook their clubs warningly at the 
rapid driver, for be it known the good 
mayor of that out-lying suburb has a hob- 
by, and that hobby is that all who pass 
through his domain must observe a digni- 
fied and easy pace. Hence his orders to 
his police-force on this subject were em- 
phatic and enforced with rigor and great 
impartiality. Stella crouched in the corn- 
er of the hack, taking no notice of what 
was passing in the outer world. She 
thought only of her own crushing sorrow. 
The poor girl had cried until the fountain 
of the crystal flood seemed to have dried 
utterly. When the hackman drew up his 
coach in front of her home, and opened the 
door for her to alight, she awakened as 
from a dream. ‘‘What had she come there 
for ? This was no longer her home. Those 
who had made it home were dead and 
gone.” 

The hackman drove away. Stella look- 


ed up at the old house — it was the look of 
one in despair. She could not go there. 
The girl turned away from the place as 
one turns away from some horrible night- 
mare. She walked up Second street until 
it joined with Pearl street — then, as a car 
was passing, she got in and crouched in a 
corner. T he conduator came along and 
collected'the fare. Then she took the steam 
dummy and went to the end of the route. 
She knew not whither she was going, and 
cared not. Any place was preferable to 
that she had once lovingly called home. 
When the street car stopped, she got out 
and walked. After a time she came to a 
long bridge, and as it was growing dark 
outside, it was still darker as she walked 
through. The light admitted by the open- 
ing at the further end guided her and then 
she went ahead. Leaving the bridge be- 
hind, she followed the road Or pike around 
the foot of a hill, while a small stream 
flowed on the other side. 

It had grown quite dark, and there was 
no friendly street lamps to guide her 
wandering feet. She skirted the small 
village of California, and the glimmering 
lights here and there told that the people 
were still astir. At one house she passed 
the family were at tea, and to her it was 
a picture of happiness; but now the cup 
was dashed from her lips forever. She 
did not hunger for the viands upon the 
table, but her heart yearned for the happi- 
ness of those around that family board. 
To them life was a bed of roses; to her a 
bed of thorns — a night as dark as that in 
which she groped her way along a strange 
path. At last the road fell by a gentle 
slope until it skirted the brink of the great 
river. Stella left the road a little way, 
and sat her down on a log that had been 
cast upon the shore by a high tide. There 
she sat and thought — -her head seemed to 
ready to burst with pain. Then a sudden 
thought came. She started up and look- 
ed wildly around as if expecting some one 
— but slowly advanced towards that calm 
and swiftly rolling rivpr. “ Why should I 
not end my sorrows here below, and then 
wing my way to those dear loved ones 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


95 


ikbore?” she thought. ^‘It would only be 
a plunge and then all would be over. 
Perhaps these pleasant waters would cast 
my frail body upon friendly shores where 
some one would drop a tear in memory of 
her who found the burden of life too heavy 
to bear.’’ 

Stella advanced firmly to the water’s 
edge, and stood ready for the plunge that 
would end her sorrows. She hesitated. 
Had not the king of the Jews — the Savior 
of the world said; 

“ Blessed are they that mourn, for they 
shall be comforted.” But that sacred word 
had forbidden man to take his own life. 
How, then, could she, how dare she rush 
into her Creator’s presence unbidden.” 
Christian philosophy triumphed, she knelt 
down on that rocky beach and poured out 
her soul to God for forgiveness for daring 
to think of disobeying his divine command. 
A steamer came rushing by, her cabin 
lighted and clouds of coal-smoke rolling 
away from her lofty stacks. Her wheels 
made a low humming as they beat the 
the water. After the boat had passed, the' 
little purling waves chased each other 
down the shore as if in one endless race 
with the wheezing craft that proudly rode 
the bosom of the river. Stella now felt a 
little more reconciled; indeed walking is 
one of the best andidotes for a troubled 
mind. The various objects one sees, and 
the sounds we hear, attract our attention 
and gradually divert the mind from the all 
absorbing sorrow, and thereby give the 
brain an intermission in which to recupe- 
rate. 

She climbed the bank, and re-entered 
the road not far from the point she had 
left it, and walked briskly on. There was 
no moon, but the starlight was sufficient 
to enable her to see with tolerable distinct- 
ness. 

Now that she had become a little more 
reconciled to life, the terrors of her situa- 
tion grew in proportion. Unaccustomed 
to the country, every sound borne to her 
ears was a presage of danger. One side 
of the road was skirted with vineyards, 
while on the other, the river was distinct- 


ly visible. After a half hour’s walk, the 
distance between the road and the river 
was greater by reason of a broad and 
fertile botom lying between. 

As Stella was passing a farm-house, a 
large dog came from the yard with a roar, 
and sprang into the road. The poor girl 
screamed with fright, for she felt sure she 
would be bitten. The dog seeing what a 
disturbance he had created, and finding 
that it was only a woman, sneaked humbly 
back to his kennel. Stella was so weak 
from fright that she could scarcely stand. 
Yet she managed to walk on. The frag- 
rance from the wheat-fields was delicious, 
and she felt that notwithstanding the sor- 
row that rankled and gnawed at her 
heart, she had passed into a new Vorld. 
The gravel road that all day long had felt 
the force of the sun was yet hot and dusty. 
She saw a stream trickling down a small 
ravine, and she kneeled down and drank 
some of its cool delicious water. Here 
she sat down and rested a few minutes, 
and her mind went back to her sorrow. A 
feeling of utter desolation came over her, 
as she recalled to mind, those vivid lines, 
“ The Exile of Erin.” “ How long would 
she wander, and would she never find a 
home, — any one on earth to care for her?’’ 

She wept at the thought — her grief was 
almost overpowering. While she sat there 
she heard a wagon coming leisurely down 
the road from an opposite direction to that 
she was traveling. Not wishing to be 
seen, she, with the natural timidity of- her 
sex, glided behind a tree until the vehicle 
should pass by. There were two men in 
the wagon, which had an arched canvas 
covering, now peculiar to the huckster 
trade, but formerly much used by emi- 
grants to the far west. 

The men were discussing their various 
experiences in going to market, but as the 
little bit that Stella heard would not be of 
interest, we omit it. As soon as the wagon 
had dissapeared in the darkness, Stella 
came out from her hiding-place and re- 
sumed her journey. She walked for half 
an hour before anything occurred worthy 
of notice. The farm-houses presented a, 


NO MONEY; 


96 - 

dark and cheerless appearance. Silence 
reigned, except the tinkling sound of a 
cow-bell back in the hills, or the baying of 
dogs. While walking briskly along, 
Stella suddenly discovered some animal 
in the road. It was large and looked like 
a bear. She quickly crossed the road, and 
climbed the fence for protection, as if 
bears could not climb fences as well. The 
animal seeing this counter movement, ad- 
vanced slowly until Stella could see that 
it was a large New Foundland dog. He 
did not look fierce, but appeared very 
tame and submissive. He came opposite 
the girl and looked at her wistfully as 
though he wanted to make friends. 
Stella scarcely knew whether to interpret 
this look into a desire to eat her, or 
whether, being lost himself, he desired a 
friend. She concluded to act upon the 
latter hypothesis, and spoke kindly 
and soothingly to him. The dog ut 
tered a low whiue, and advanced to 
the fence on which she stood. She felt 
encouraged, and got down and patted him 
on the head Vith her hand. The dog 
took this kindly, and when she resumed 
her journey he trotted along by her side. 
With such a brave-looking defender she 
felt con>paratively safe. She called over 
several familiar dog names in the hope of 
finding his cognomen, but he answered to 
none until she came to Dash, and then he 
sprang up and licked her hand with such 
fondness she felt sure she had found it at 
last. 

If Stella had reason to suspect the fidel- 
ity of her defender, her fears were soon 
put to flight. ■ As they were passing a low 
hovel by the road-side, a large bony dog 
ran out with a fierce growl. Dash met 
him half way, and at it they went. They 
bit and growled and made the dust fly, as 
each struggled for the mastery. Some- 
times Dash was on top, and sometimes the 
strange dog. Stella stood trembingly by, 
though much excited by the terrific- 
struggle. She encouraged her champion, 
and he won the victory. He got the 
strange dog by the ear, and then there was 
howl for mercy. Stella told Dash to let go, 


and he obeyed. The strange dog went back 
to his den with louder howls than he came. 
Dash came meekly up to his mistiess as 
if he scarcely knew whether he had done 
right or wrong. Dash was not long left 
in doubt, for Stella spoke kindly to him, 
and patted him gently. Dash’s head went 
up at these symptoms of approval, and he 
looked as if he would like to whip half a 
dozen more curs, if they dared to molest 
his new-found mistress. 

At the next house they came to, a very 
little dog came out in fine style as if to 
tackle Dash. The big dog paid no atten- 
tion to the cur at first, but the latter gave 
the big fellow a nip on the sly. Dash 
turned, and then the cur fled with such 
precipitation that he near brained himsolf 
by running against the gate in trying to 
get into the yard. On any other occasion, 
Stella would have laughed at the ludicrous 
scene she had just witnessed. 

They had gone but half a mile, when 
Dash, who was a little distance ahead, 
came back with every symptom of fear. 
His tail was down, and he whined piteous- 
ly. Stella encouraged him to advance, 
but he would not budge an inch in that 
direction. What was she to do, for she 
felt there must be danger or Dash would 
not hesitate a moment. What was it? 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

We must not in our haste forget the 
other characters of our story. 

When Lucy Moorhead was summoned 
to the side of her patient, she came at once 
and was pleased to notice his improved 
condition. 

“I fear, sir, you are acting without 
orders from the doctor or nurse in gettino- 
up so soon.’’ she said. 

“But for them perhaps I should not be 
able to get up at all.” 

“ Well, I hope you feel strong enough 
for the task you have inflicted upon your- 
self.” 

“ Not so strong as a well person; but I 
feel a great deal better. My head swims 
a little from weakness, but that will come 
all right in time. To-morrow I shall go 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


home, for I feel that I have too long been 
a burden to you.” 

*‘How can you talk so, Mr. Somers, 
when you know it has been a pleasure to 
serre you. ’Tis I that have reason to be 
thankful,” said Lucy reproachfully. 

“Forgive me, Miss Moorhead. I had 
no wish to give oflfense, but I feel that I 
have been a pensioner on your hospitality 
too long already.” 

“ There now, that is just the way with 
you menj you ask pardon for some in- 
cautious sentence, and then put in a con- 
junction and end by giving a worse blow 
than the one you recalled.” 

Somers seemed a little puzzled. 

“ Come and sit here on the sofa beside 
me/’ he said. 

“ You will not utter any more such 
naughty sentences as those you spoke a 
few minutes since.” 

«I will not.” 

“ Then I accept,” and Lucy sat down 
on the sofa beside her patient. 

“Lucy,” began Somers solemnly, I 
once asked you to become my wife, and 
you very properly declined, for who could 
expect a girl to marry him on such short 
acquaintance as was ours ? I was aware 
of the great disparity of our stations in 
life, but blinded by the great love 1 enter- 
tained for you, I proposed in an unguarded 
moment.” 

“ Now if you are going to talk like that, 
I shall leave you at once.” 

“ No, stay and hear me out. You re- 
fused me. I went away almost heart- 
broken, but not angry. Never has there 
been an hour since that time — if reason 
held her sway — that I did not think of and 
reverence your name.’’ 

Lucy looked thoughtfully at a figure in 
the carpet, as if trying to decipher the 
idea the weaver had sought to convey. 

Somers went on. 

“ It woula be wasting words to say that 
I love you with my whole soul, and would 
sacrifice all that ray own honor does not 
demand to secure your pure love in return. 
Can I, dare I, hope that you have changed 
your mind since 1 last pleaded my c^uae?” 


“ George, if I may be so familiar, I 
must say that I have not changed my 
mind one particle since that time as to 
whether I could love you or not.” 

“ Then,” said Somers, “ I suppose we 
must part forever.” 

Lucy remained silent for a moment, as 
if not knowing what to say. 

“ George, you have done me a great 
favor; I doubtless owe my life to your 
strong arm, — ” 

“ Yet you refuse me ? ” half reproach- 
fully. 

“ Would you accept a wife who married 
you from gratitude ? ” 

“No.” 

“ I believe you. Well, since you are so 
honest in your expressions, I will make a 
little explanation that may or may not be 
satisfactory to you. When we first met, 
I liked you, and as time went on, this feel- 
ing grew on me, and I resolved to flirt 
with you, and when you proposed to me, 
I felt obliged to say no at least once, to 
keep a promise I had made to myself. 
Then you went away so sorrowfully, that I 
reproached myself for giving you pain, 
I said a few minutes ago that I had not 
changed my mind, neither have I; for as I 
loved you then I love you still.” 

During the utterance of this last sen- 
tence, one would have thought that George 
Somers was not crippled in his arms, how* 
ever serious he might have been injured 
otherwise. Lucy released herself. 

“ There, George, that will do for heroes 
and heroines in novels, but not for com- 
mon-sense people.” 

They talked long and earnestly on 
matters partaining to the future Itr was 
agreed that the wedding day should be fix- 
ed at least one year ahead. This was 
done that Somers might be enabled to 
complete his studies and be admitted to 
the bar. 

George Somers went home a happy man. 
He had something to work and live for 
now. 

The failure to find Stella Gibbons creat- 
ed a great excitement among those who 
knew her and appreciated her good quali- 


98 


NO MONEY; 


ties. To none did the blow come with 
greater force than to Mr. Peckover and 
his good wife. 

The Odd Fellows put forth another effort 
to had the missing girl, and among those 
most zealous was George Somers. He 
discovered about this time that Paul An- 
near, the villian. had returned to the city. 
The principal witness of his villainy had 
disappeared; hence his arrest would have 
been a farce, so they set keen -eyed and 
long-eared detectives to dog his steps. 
They watched his ingoings and outcomings 
for weeks, but to no purpose, As a last 
resort, circulars giving a discription of 
Stella were printed and sent to all the 
lodges for a hundred miles around, in the 
hope of finding her, but no answer came. 

Hope seemed to vanish. She had faded 
from the busy scene that surrounded her. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

When Dash refused to advance, Stella 
scarce knew what to do; she stood half ir- 
resolute. There must be danger, or the 
dog would not be cowering at her heels. 

After reflecting a few minutes, she deter- 
mined to execute a flank movement and 
skirt the real or imaginary danger. This 
change of base seemed to meet with 
Dash’s entire approbation, for he nimbly 
sprang over the fence in advance of his 
mistress. ‘‘This augurs well of success,” 
thought Stella. “But it looks a good deal 
like cowardice.” 

Having crossed into the field, she kept 
close along the fence, while Dash kept 
further away. With every sense keenly 
alive.for the first symptom of danger, the 
girl heard a rustling sound and an occa- 
sional grunt. She stopped and listened — 
her heart kept beating almost as loud as 
the noise. She then advanced and peered 
cautiously through the crevices of the fence, 
and saw a sow suckling a litter of pigs. 
She wondered why Dash was afraid of a 
hog. She did not know then, as she learned 
afterward, that the fiercest dogs are some- 
times afraid of a sow when surrounded by 
ft litter of small pigs. Just tm she was 


passing, the sow sprang up, and, seeing the 
girl, made an effort to climb the fence, and 
champed her jaws as though she would 
want no better fun than to eat Stella. Hav- 
ing gone the length of the field, she now 
thought it prudent to re-enter the road. To 
this. Dash made no sort of objection. “I 
thought I knew better than you,” said Stel- 
la, addressing her canine companion; “bat 
I didn’t.” 

Dash whined consent at this approving 
speech, and they went ahead. As they 
were passing near a tall tree that skirted 
the road, there came a fearful sound from 
among its branches. This sound rose loud, 
clear and sonorous. 

“Whol Whol whol — who, who, who, ah!’’ 
The notes were startling, and Stella thought 
it must be some wild animal hidden 
among the branches and about to descend 
and devour both her and Dash. She ut* 
tered a silent prayer for deliverance. Then 
she looked at Dash to see if he was cower- 
ing with fear at hearing these awful notes 
of warning. Dash was not a bit alarmed; 
he “had not been born in the woods to be 
scared by an owl .” 

There was a noise in the tree-top, and 
looking up Stella saw a large bird flying 
away. She almost felt angry at herself for 
being scared by a bird. She now began 
to feel great fatigue from long walking and 
continued fasting. Her heart was heavy 
as lead, and it was each minute growing 
more difficult to drag herself along. She 
came to another bridge, though not near 
so long as the one she had crossed early in 
the evening. After crossing this bridge 
and going a little way, she found she waa 
entering the streets of a town, which ap- 
peared to be of considerable size. 

The gasoline lamps flickered and hissed; 
but the houses were dark. Stella wondered 
if everybody was sleeping and if there were 
no police to guard the town. The walks 
were poorly paved aud the walking indif- 
ferent. What was the poor wanderer to do 
in this strange town ? No friendly door 
opened ftt her command — no genial friend 
stood ready to bid her welcome. She streets 
ftnd the 'houses vied with each other io 


AN ODD FELLOWS* STORY. 


wearing a look of cold hospitality. Nu- 
merous mangy curs howled at her as she 
passed along, but the presence of Dash 
kept them back. She szw a hotel sign, 
but it was an inn open only to those who 
could pay for accommodrtion, and not to 
the moneyless. She could not stop here; 
she must go on, even though that were the 
watchword and countersign at the gates of 
this rural hamlet. Walking on for a time, 
Stella turned into a cross street that seemed 
to lead to the country. She came to a hill, 
or rather the road skirting a creek, and at 
the same time rose gradually from the lower 
grade of the town. Houses of a poorer 
class thick-lined the road; but as she got 
farther out the houses became less frequent. 
The grade by which the road gained the 
level of the higher country had a very fa- 
tiguing effect upon the weary girl. She 
panted heavily as she dragged herself 
along. As she reached the top of the hill, 
the streaks of gray were plainly visible in 
the eastern horizon, heralding the approach 
of day. The notes of barn-yard fowls were 
ringing loud and clear in anticipation of 
the coming God of lighn. Stella suddenly 
felt dizzy — her brain was whirling. She 
crossed the road and leaned on the fence 
for support. There was a moment of quiet, 
and she fancied she was better. Again she 
felt sick and faint, but it was only moment- 
ary, for she sank, unconscious, on the 
grass. 

Nature had been overtaxed, and sought 
this method to gain a respite for the poor 
victim. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

In the county of Clermont, there 
once lived a farmer in good circum- 
stances who had a hobby and that 
hobby was the buying of decayed road- 
sters with a view of bringing them up again. 
John Throckmorton was termed a good 
farmer. His lands were ample and pro- 
ductive. He knew how to use them that 
they might yield an abundant harvest. He 
made money off his lands, but lost some on 
his hobby. 

He had a mania for buying old, broken- 
down horses. No horse was too poor for 
him to ^buy if he was only cheap. He 


9 $ 

could see prospective good points in a mas* 
of of horse-bones that no other living mor 
tal would ever have dreamed of. No itin- 
erant colored preacher, borne upon the 
back bone of a moving skeleton of horse- 
flesh, could pass the door without being 
bantered for a trade, or if the divine was 
unable to suit himself from Throckmorton’s 
numerous herd, then he was paid cash, if 
the sum did not exceed fifteen or t^^enty 
dollars. 

Thus did he pick up a bundle of bones, 
here and there, until his farm presented 
the appearance of a retired horses* home. 
In summer they wandered about the fields 
nipping ihe grass, or stood in groups be- 
neath the shade of the trees fighting the 
flies, and inwardly blessing this benefactor 
of their species. The number of piles of 
bleaching bones about the farm showed 
that Throckmorton’s pets often succumbed 
to his process of raising.” 

John Throckmorton’s family consisted 
of his wife and one son. William Throck- 
morton was now twenty-three. He had 
been raised on a large farm and had 
attended college two years. He was stout, 
strong-armed, well muscled young man. 
He had handsome features, with dark, 
curly hair. Although his features were 
sun-burned by exposure, his countenance 
did not appear less noble. Kind hearted 
and genial, he was the beau of the neigh- 
borhood ; for be it known that if there is 
anything that pleases a woman it is man- 
liness in a man. Sensible girls always 
give these effeminate men the go by, 
somehow, and take to the manly fellows. 
So William was a general favorite. He 
had been back from college a couple of 
years, and had adopted farming as his 
calling in life. He had gone earnestly to 
work, and one of the first things he did 
was to try to persuade his father to give 
up his hobby. This was a serious task. 
Mr. Throckmorton tried to argue the case, 
but his son had the fact in his favor. The 
heaps of bleaching bones were pointed out, 
and his elder asked to name a single in- 
stance where money had been made by his 
trading in horseflesh. Finally William 
got his father to agree not to buy another 
horse for a year as an experiment. 

One summer evening, soon after this, 
William started for Cincinnati. He did 
not go far, but returning in the night he 
got the old horses from the fields and drove 
them on the road before him. All night 
he rode and chased his father’s pets. To- 
ward daylight he left them scattered along 
the road for miles. “ If these old bones 
have energy to get back to our farm, they 
are welcome to end their days there,*’ 


100 


NO MONEY; 


said William to himself. Mr. Trockmorton 
was almost inconsolable at his loss and 
broadly hinted at theft, but the neighbors 
only smiled, and as he could not hear of 
his favorites he was finally compelled to 
give them up as lost. One of them did 
come back and great was his joy, thereat. 
William said nothing, but had many a 
quiet laugh at his father’s expense. 

The fields were turned into meadows 
and corn fields. Pat hogs basked in the 
sunshine in the barn yard. Sleek cattle 
were lowing in the pastures, and good 
strong horses were in the stables. The 
farm prospered as it had never done 
before. At last the father had yielded the 
palm of wisdom to the son, and as he 
looked over his herds and flocks, he was 
forced to acknowledge to himself — though 
he did not to others — that William's meth- 
od of farming was a great improvement on 
his own. In due course of time the old 
house gave way to one of more modern 
architecture. As money could be conveni- 
ently spared, new furniture and new books 
were purchased, until now this farm-house 
was fast assuming an air of refieement. 

Mf. Throckmorton used to say to his 
wife in a confidential way: “This all comes 
of sending William to college;” and then 
the wife would reply, that “perhaps their 
son meant to bring home a college-bred 
wife some day.” 

The cholera usually spreads greatest 
consternation, where it does the least 
harm; namely: in the farming districts. 
Those swift-winged messengers, the news- 
papers, bear to the rural districts a half 
garbled account of the ravages of cholera 
in the city. These accounts are often 
doubted and seldom believed to convey the 
actual death rate. 

Then the hucksters plying their calling 
between city and country, in order to mag- 
nify their own bravery in venturing into a 
place where death lurks in every alley, 
bear away tidings of unlimited mortality. 
The country mind is kept in a state of 
vague uneasiness. The slightest symp- 
toms are tortured by the imagination into 
forerunners of the cholera. A heavy din- 
ner or an unguarded supper, which would 
pay the penalty of nature’s offended law 
at any other time and not excite a thought, 
are now viewed with fearful forebodings of 
approaching disease. 

Mrs. Throckmorton was taken sick in 
the night with cholera morbus, and cam- 
phor diluted with water failing to check 
the vomiting, William was dispatched to 
towd in great hasie for Dr. Preston, the 
family physician. That the doctor might 
be brought more quickly, William Throck- 


morton went in a buggy. By this .arrange* 
ment the physician could be brouhgt 
along and return the next day. William 
quickly drove to town and waked the 
sleeping doctor. 

These doctors are like apothecaries’ 
clerks; they have been awakened so much 
in the night that they take it as a matter 
of course. The doctor was soon dressed, 
and catching up his leathern medicine box, 
sprang into the buggy, and rapidly drove 
away. It was now growing quite light, 
and some of the denizens of the town 
were already astir. They drove as rapidly 
up the hill from the town as the nature of 
the road would admit. There was but little 
talking done, as the doctor had so recently 
awakened that he did not feel very com- 
municative. 

People who spring out of bed before 
their time, don’t usually feel talkative. 
A man may be a Webster after tea, but he 
is not likely to be a Cicero before break- 
fast. They had gained the top of the hill, 
and Throckmorton had just whistled at 
his horse to increase his speed, wheu Dr. 
Preston laid his hands on the lines and 
asked him to stop. “What is it?” asked 
Throckmorton, drawing up his horse sud- 
denly. afc, 

“See; there lies a woman;” and Doctor 
Preston sprang out, and hastened to the 
spot where she lay. A Newfoundland dog 
sat by her side, and seemed overjoyed that 
relief had come. Throckmorton drove his 
horse into a fence corner and tied him, 
and then went to the side of the doctor, 
who was making a critical examination of 
the woman to ascertain whether she was 
dead or alive. “Does she live?” asked 
Throckmorton in a low voice; for he was 
struck by the beauty of that pale face, and 
half feared she would hear him. 

“Yes, she is alive,” replied the doctor, 
but life is trembling in the balance. She 
could not live long without attention.” 
“What is that?” asked Throckmorton, 
pointing to a three-link pin that glistened 
on the girl’s bosom. 

“An Odd Fellow’s pin, I should judge,*’ 
ruplied the doctor, chafing the girl’s 
hands. 

“OhI of course, and therefore she is un- 
der our protection.” 

“Then I think we had better turn about 
and take her back to my house; she will be 
properly cared for there.’’ 

“Don’t think of it, doctor. You get in 
the buggy and take her in your arms, and 
it won’t take long to get to our house.” 

The stout doctor gathered up the un- 
conscious girl, whom the reader has 
doubtless surmised was Stella Gibbons, 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


101 


and seated himself in the Throck- 

morton untied his horse anH sprang in, 
and under the incentive of his voice the 
animal sprang away at a rapid pace. In 
half an hour'ihey were at Mr. Throckmor 
Ion’s residence. William relieved the doc- 
tor of his burden and bore her into the 
house. The doctor followed. They placed 
heron a bed. Mr. Throckmorton, senior, 
came in and matters were soon explained. 
He reported that his wife had ceased vomit- 
ing and was sleeping. 

All anxiety for the good old lady being 
now put at rest, every energy was bent to 
resuscitate. Stella Gibbons. Betty, the 
hired girl, lent her assistance, and in half 
an hour the doctor bad the satisfaction of 
seeing the girl open her eyes and lookwon- 
deringly about her. Dr. Preston had sur- 
mised that she was some crazy person who, 
while wandering about the country, had 
fallen down ina fit. Great then was his 
delight at noticing with what a sane and 
puzzled look the girl cast her large beauti- 
ful eyes from one face to another, as if try 
ing to read a line of explanation. 

“You have been quite ill, but keep quiet 
and you will soon recover,” said Dr. Pres- 
ton, in a kindly voice.” 

“Are you a physician?” asked Stella. 

“I am.” 

“Then it is to you that I owe my lifej 
but your time has been sadly wasted in 
bringing me back to a world so full of 
trouble. Better to have let me perish and 
go to those I love,” and Stella sighed 
heavily. 

“There, now, don’t exert yourself. You 
are in the hands of friends that will care 
for you,” and the doctor turned about and 
left the room. Wra. Throckmorton follow- 
ed him out. Once they were out of hear- 
ing, the doctor said: 

“This girl is in trouble. What the 
nature of it is I know not; but she is not 
in a eondition to tell us now. What she 
most needs is sympathy. Your mother is 
ill, and I think the* best thibg I could do, 
would be to go at once and bring my wife 
out here. She knows better how to doctor 
cases of this kind than I with all my 
physic.” 

“If it would not be too much trouble.’ 

“Oh, not at all; for I confess to feeling a 
deep interest in this patient. Besides 
that wonderful pm she wears 
makes me want to know her history. Now 
see that Betty gives her some nourishment; 

■ a cup of tea, an egg and some toast, and I 
will run in and see your mother.” 

In a quarter of an hour the doctor was 
hastening to town. A few hours later he 
drove back with his wife, one of those re- 


fined, sympathetic ladies, who know how 
to say everything in such a kindly way 
that they win our hearts directly. Mrs. 
Preston made herself useful, for if her 
husband was the prince of doctors she was 
the princess of nurses. 

Late in the evening, when Stella felt 
herself sufficiently strong, she told the sad 
story that had brought her away Irotn 
what she had once called hurae. Mrs. 
Presron cried in sympathy with Stella, and 
when the story was told, she kissed her 
and said: “Dear heart, you shall never 
want a home. Come with me as soon as 
you are well enough.” 

Just then Mrs. Throckmorton, who had 
partially recovered, came in and said: 

“We can’t think of your going away 
Miss. I have no daughter of my own, so 
you must stay here.” 

After a wordy but good -humored contest, 
a compromise was finally agreed upon. It 
was that Stella should stay at Throckmor- 
ton’s two-thirds of the time and at Dr. 
Preston’s one third. So Stella had friends 
where she least expected to find them. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

Stella Gibbons, now removed from the 
scene of her sorrows, and subjected to new 
and novel influences, forgot or controlled 
in a measure the sadness that weighed 
down her spirits. Yet in secret she some- 
times wept for the loved ones that were in 
the grave; but she was not ungrateful to 
those who had found her an insensible 
clod upon the earth, and taken her into 
the bosom of their family. She sought to 
make herself useful, and manifested an 
earnest desire to learn. Yet her awk- 
wardness cost her many a blush, and gave 
Mrs. Throckmorton many a hearty laugh. 
Being naturally quick to learn, she was 
soon able to lend her valuable aid to the 
good house- wife. Li needle work she was 
an adept, and Mrs. Preston declared she 
had no equal. So effectually had Stella 
won the heart of Mrs. Throckmorton that 
the good lady began to look upon these 
visits to town as a sort of hardship that 
must be endured out of respect to a rash 
agreement.- Dash had found a home too. 
He basked in the sunshine upon the 
verandah, or munched his meals complac- 
ently. 

Whenever Stella went out for a walk he 
was always ready to accompany her. If 
she stooped down and patted his head, as 
she sometimes did, he was wild with 
delight. 

William Throckmorton from being in 
daily intercourse with Stella, learned to 


102 


NO MONEY; 


love her passionately. One night he 
returned from his lodge with a gloomy 
countenance and an air of dejection. 
“Why, son, what is the matter?” asked his 
mother, noticing his crestfallen look. 
“Listen and I will read,’’ he said, fumbling 
in his pocket and drawing out a neatly 
printed circular. It read: 

Cincinnati, August — , 18 — . 

To the Members of the I. 0. 0. F: 

Brothers — There disappeared from our 
midst on the — day of July, Stella 
Gibbons, the orphan child of a deceased 
brother. It is supposed that in a fit of 
melancholy or some temporary mental de- 
rangement, caused by the sudden death of 
her mother and brother with cholera, that 
she had left the city. (Here followed a 
minute description of Stella.) Any one 
knowing of her whereabouts will confer a 
favor on sympathizing friends by address- 
ing William Peckover or Lodge, 

No. — , Cincinnati, Ohio. 

Stella’s face was crimson, 

“What shall we do?” I hope you 
are not going to leave us,” asked Wil- 
liam. 

“ Let me see the paper,’’ said Stella. 

William handed it to her. She read 
it over carefully; and the young man 
watched her countenance. 

“You have not told any one that you 
knew me to answer the description 
given in this paper ? ” she asked, turn* 
ing to William. 

“No, I have not.’’ 

“Then you need never do so,” she 
replied, as she tore the paper into small 
bits and cast them into an open fire 
place.” 

William’s spirits rose, and his counte- 
nance brightened. 

Reader, by your leave we will drop a 
year from the record of the years that are 
past and gone forever, and ask you to go 
with us to the spot where Stella Gibbons 
had fallen exhausted upon the grass. 

It was an Autumn morning. The fog 
which at an early hour had clouded the 
bosom of the river, had risen and hung like 
acres of crape suspended in mid air. Down 
through the openings in the hills could be 
seen the town nestled by the side of the 
sparkling river whiched flowed placidly on 
its torturous way. Beyond town and 
river rose the tall Kentucky hills, with 
patches of field and Autumn hued 
woodland. The scene was one to 
fill the soul with feelings of delight. 

The fog bank above the scene looked 
like the gauzy curtain of the stage 
that rises &om some fairy scene. It lent 


a charm to the landscape that my weak 
pen can never describe. 

Two persons sat in a buggy at the top 
of the hill viewing the splendid landscape, 
but they did not allow it to lure them from 
a more important topic. The occupants 
of the buggy were William Throckmorton 
and Stella Gibbons. He had just asked 
her to become his wife. She turned to 
him with a face full of love and admiration 
as she asked: 

“ William, you have heard my history?” 

“ I have, Stella.” 

“ And still you insist upon my becoming 
your wife ? ” 

“ I do — my life would be miserable with- 
out you.” 

“ Then so be it,” she said, as she turned 
her head aside. 

Throckmorton seized her hand and placed 
upon her finger the engagement 
ring. 

“ I have nothing to give in return,” she 
said; then after a pause, “Yes: I forgot,” 
and she drew from her pocket the three 
GOLDEN LINKS and fastened it to the lappel 
of his vest. “ Wear these; they are har- 
bingers of good. May they serve you as 
faithfully in the hour of need as they 
have me and my sainted brother.” 

Throckmorton undid the fastenings of 
the pin from the place where the modest 
hands of Stella had placed it upon his 
vest, and fastened it upon the bosom of his 
shirt. 

“ I will wear it and try to honor it as 
you have done, for it is dearer to me than 
a diamond.” 

One month after this event came the 
greater one of the marriage of this happy 
couple. The wedding was a quiet one, 
only a few friends and relatives of the 
family being present. Among the formei 
was Doctor Preston and his wife. The 
doctor claiming that Throckmorton acted 
rather cavalierly in not asking his consent 
to the match, as Stella was his by right ol 
discovery. His wife cut him off with “She 
may be yours by right of discovery; but 
she belonged to Mrs. Throckmorton and me 
by right of settlement, for it was we who 
agreed that she should not go back to the 
city, but remain here.” 

“It may be all true enough,” said Throck- 
morton, that the doctor discovered her, and 
that you and mother settled her, but she 
is mine by right of conquest.” This quick- 
witted speech of the groom created a laugh 
and the doctor was discomfited. “ Never 
mind sir,’’ replied the doctor, “just wait 
until you get sick, and then I’ll get my re* 
venge.” 


AN ODD FELLOWS’ STORY. 


103 


** Which misfortune, I hope, will be in- 
definitely postponed.” 

The next day after the wedding, the 
happy couple drove down to the city 
behind a span of splendid horses that 
sprung over the smooth road as if harness- 
ed to a toy wagon. Stella had now regain- 
ed her spirits, and her rosy cheeks were 
the picture of health. As they traveled 
over the same route which she had taken 
on her memorable journey, she pointed out 
the location, as well as she ‘could remem- 
er, where each incident occurred. She did 
not even forget the large log on which she 
sat while meditating suicide. 

They drove by the old tenement house 
where Stella had lived, and she shed a tear 
as she looked up at its familiar walls and 
chimneys, but new faces were at the 
windows. The old gate still kept its 
drunken watch at tbe entrance of the 
court, and but little change was noticable 
anywhere. A little flaxen haired boy 
came out from the court as they passed, 
and Stella was forcibly reminded of her 
lost brother. 

Stella thought the streets looked as 
much as they did a year ago, but they 
seemed so much more noisy, and the 
houses appeared blacker and smokier 
than when she lived in the city. Mr. 
Throckmorton was, of course, deeply in- 
terested in these various objects, but he 
could not experience the feelings of one 
coming back to her childhood. They 
were on their way to an uptown hotel, 
when Stella’s attention was attracted by 
the frantic efforts of a newsboy, who 
was gesticulating to her and pointing in 
the direction in which they came. She 
asked her husband to stop the horses. 
He did so, and she looked back. Her 
face brightened into a smile. 

^ Well, if there isn’t Mr. Peckover. 
Will, please drive over to the pavement.” 

Mr. Peckover came up, flourishing his 
cane and blowing with the exercise. 

Oh, you runaway,” he said, catching 
Stella’s hand and shaking it. “ Why 
my child, where in the world do you 
come from ? ” 

“ From the country; but, Mr. Peckover 
allow me to introduce you to my hus- 
band, Mr. Throckmorton.” 

The gentlemen both shook hands cor- 
dially. 

“ Whither are you journeying now ? ” 
asked Mr. Peckover.” 

“ To the hotel.” 

Well, about face and drive to my house. 
We keep a hotel for our friends.” 

Stella said they would call before they 
left the city. 


No ; that won’t do. I have some busi- 
ness to fix up with you ; and besides Mrs. 
Peckover will be glad to see you ; so don’t 
deny me, but drive around at once. I will 
be there as soon as you.” 

So they went to Mr. Peckove’r, where 
they met a hearty welcome. 

The same evening the lodge trustee in- 
formed Stella that after her sudden depart- 
ure, and being unable to find her, he had 
taken out letters of administration and 
sold what property he could find at their 
old home, — no, he had not sold all, for he 
had allowed his wife to select many little 
articles that she thought Stella would prize 
as keepsakes. “ And now,” he concluded, 
‘‘here is a check for the amount. I wish 
it was for a million, for you deserve it.” 

Stella thanked him, and at his request, 
request told him all that had happened to 
her since that eventful day when her mo- 
ther and brother had been put away to 
rest. Mr. Peckover often wiped his eyes 
during the recital, and when she had con- 
cluded he said: 

“ God bless you, my child I You have 
had an eventful career for one so young ; 
but those that put their trust in that gold- 
en motto. Friendship, Love and Truth, 
and enroll their names with us, will not be 
forgotten in the hour of adversity. Money 
is potent, but it is friendship, after all, that 
lends to life a sacred charm. In this day 
when men’s hearts are much given to self- 
ishness these social orders do a great deal 
to curb the baser and more brutal feelings 
of our natures. But I see by the pin your 
husband wears, that he, too, is an Odd 
Fellow.” 

“ Yes, sir, and I honor him all the more 
for being one.” 

• “ He has indeed chosen well, and I hope 
he may long live to honor the Order. 

Stella asked after Lucy Moorhead. 

“Well, she is married to my young 
friend George Somers, and she could not 
have found a worthier jnan. Elijah Moor- 
head objected on account of social distinc- 
tion, but Judge Nibs, a friend of his, told 
him that Mr. Somers was one of the most 
promising young lawyers at the bar. Then 
Mr. Moorhead became reconciled to the 
match, and gave them a grand wedding. 
I have sent word to George and his wife to 
come over and spend the evening with us, 
as an old friend is here. ^ 

“ How thoughtful you are. 

“ I like to see old friends together. 

Somers and his wife came, and were 
surprised to find a friend whom they never 
expected to see. They talked over by- 
gones, and it all ended in Lucy promising 


104 


NO MONEY ; 


to visit Stella at her home. This promise 
she not only kept, but has repeated. 

After spending a few days in the city and 
visiting the graves of her relatives at Spring 
Grove, Stella and her husband returned to 
their home. Stella now declares that all 
the money in those large banks on Third 
street would not induce ber to return to the 
city. Her happiness is complete. 

Of the other characters of this story — 
the villainous Paul Annear, after return- 
ing to the city, entered upon bis old routine 
of debauchery, drinking and gambling, no 


til to-day he is a miserable wreck of hq 
manity, with the shadow of the gravq 
stretching out to meet his coming footsteps. 
It is not likely that he will live to receive 
his father’s fortune: The |crafty Jane Me 
Coy never returned to Cincinnati. 

In conclusion, we ask the reader who 
has persevered to the end, to join with us 
in invoking a blessing upon all those who 
live honest and upright lives, whether they 

be rich or poor. 

« 

THE END. 


I 



—AN— 


Odd Fellows' Story, 


— BY — 


J. H. KINKEAD, 

Past D. G. M. of Ohio. 


Cincinnati: 


J. H. KINKEAD <fe CO^ 
1876. 









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J. K[. KINKE^D & CO., 

manufacturers of 

Lodge and Encampment Regalia 

-A. rid Outfittiiig Groods, 

Office, No. 65 West Pearl Street, - - CINCINNATI, OHIO. 


Price Lists and Estimates sent on application. 


Publications of the Order of Odd Fellows. 

THE MYSTIC JEWELL — A weekly newspaper, Amos Moore, Cincinnati, Oliio. 
Terms, $2.00 per year. Specimen copies sent free. 

THE ODD FELLOWS’ COMPANION — A monthly magazine, Columbus, Ohio. 
M. C. Lilly & Co. Terms, $2.50 per year. 

THE ODD FELLOWS’ TALISMAN — A monthly magazine. John Reynolds, 
Publisher, Indianapolis, Ind. Terms, $2.00 per year. 

THE TEXAS ODD FELLOW — A monthly magazine. John L. Miller, Corsi- 
cana, Texas. Terms, $2.00 per year. 

THE HEART AND HAND — A s mi-monthly newspaper. Golden Rule Associa- 
tion, New York City. Terms, $2.00 per year. 

THE CHRONICLE — A weekly newspaper, published by R. J. Strickland, Center- 
ville, Ind. Terms, $1.50 per year. 

MICHIGAN ODD FELLOW — A semi-monthly newspaper. Bay City, Michigan. 
Terms, per year. 

THE ODD FELLOWS' BANNER — A weekly newspaper. J. B. Kino and S. H. 
Glenn, Bloomfield, Iowa. Terms, $2.00 per year. 

THE NEW AGE — A weekly newspaper. New Age Publishing Co., San Francisco, 
Cal. Terms, $3.60 per year. 

THE GUARDIAN — A monthly newspaper. Guardian Publishing Co., Chicago, 111. 
Terms, 50 cents per year. 

DER ODD FELLOW — A magazine (in German), monthly. M. C. Lilly & Co., 
Columbus, Ohio. 


Every Odd Fellow should feel it to be a duty to take at least one or more of the 
publications of the Order, and thus assist in spreading abroad the principles of one 
of the noblest Orders now in existence. 




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